


When the world gets too heavy put it on my back

by nematoda



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Ace Obi-Wan, Asexual Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationship, asexual obi-wan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-05-20 01:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nematoda/pseuds/nematoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan is different when it comes to relationships. Not in a bad way, just... different.</p><p>Studies of platonic love in the life of Obi-Wan Kenobi, exploring the master/padawan relationship with Qui-Gon and eventually with Anakin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As if something is over, and something has scarcely begun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does he know I'm alive?  
> Do I know if he's real?  
> Does he see what I see?  
> Does he feel what I feel?
> 
> In my life  
> I'm no longer alone  
> Now that love in my life  
> Is so near  
> Find me now  
> Find me here
> 
> \--Les Miserables, "In My Life"

At fourteen, Obi-Wan Kenobi craved his master’s touch.

It had been more than a year since he had been made a padawan, but the little things Qui-Gon did made it hard for him to imagine that his life had been anything but totally entwined with Qui-Gon’s. A congratulatory pat on the back after sparring, a reassuring shoulder squeeze when Obi-Wan was feeling discouraged, the way Qui-Gon’s long fingers deftly braided his padawan braid every morning. Obi-Wan knew that his fellow padawans braided their own braids. He didn’t care. He liked feeling a little dependent, a little needy, if only in these small indulgences. He knew that Qui-Gon understood this, and never thought twice when Obi-Wan reached for his master, returning every physical contact with the same gentle care that accompanied everything the master did.

Perhaps this need for almost constant contact grew from his wholehearted respect and gratitude for his master. Perhaps it was the product of nostalgia for the chaotic, full body affection of his creche-mates, the type of affection that was considered well-meaning but childish now that he was a padawan. Perhaps it had sprung from the deep-seated feeling of inadequacy that never quite left him after his close brush with a lifetime in the AgriCorps. Whatever the case, Obi-Wan felt the absence of his master’s touch acutely, often multiple times a day, and always sought to remedy it as quickly as possible. Whenever he and Qui-Gon were in the vicinity of each other, especially outside the safety of their quarters, he found a way to touch him. Fingers grasped on the hem of Qui-Gon’s sleeve, his bony hip brushing Qui-Gon’s thigh through their robes when he stood too closely, his small smooth hand wrapped in his master’s large callused one. The feeling grounded him; it quieted his jittery nerves when he was surrounded by what felt like thousands of people who knew how close he had been to a life of dirt and solitude.

But now, everything had changed.

It had been several cycles since Qui-Gon had sat him down over cups of tea before bed and explained to him that although Qui-Gon himself was not opposed to physical displays of affection, everyone--even some in the Jedi Order--did not share their facetious view of such conduct. Apparently eyebrows had been raised at Obi-Wan’s effusive behavior toward his master--completely normal behavior, Qui-Gon was quick to assure--and, as he was approaching sexual maturity, his displays of affection would become less and less appropriate. The master-padawan relationship was one frequently viewed by non-Jedi as being inherently and scintillatingly sexual, and it was a stigma that the Order was loathe to perpetuate.

“You are a loving boy, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon had said with fervor, his serious eyes gentling at the corners. “There is no reason whatsoever to be ashamed or made uncomfortable by that side of yourself. It is a side I treasure dearly. However, I would ask that you keep the physical manifestation of this quality within our chambers, as all creatures do not understand that your intentions are merely platonic.”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan had replied, lowering his eyes to focus intently on his untouched cup of tea. He still didn’t understand Qui-Gon’s fascination with the stuff. The beverage didn’t have a particularly good taste, and the health benefits were negligible. Many people, adults and children alike, didn’t bother with it. He certainly hadn’t in the creche. It was one more thing to which he was getting accustomed since having become a padawan. One more little change to add to his tally of “things that are different now and won’t ever be the same.” And now on that list: being affectionate with his master. His throat tightened at the thought. It all was starting to feel like too much change.

“Obi-Wan?”

He felt a callused finger brush the underside of his jaw and raised his head to find Qui-Gon looking at him with a crease between his brows.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

“No, Master.”

A heavy pause, then: “Off to bed with you, then. It’s getting late.”

Despite the embrace that had followed their discussion, and the return to seeming normalcy that had immediately followed it (as was Qui-Gon’s way with nearly every lesson--“fix it and forget it” Obi-Wan called it bitterly in his head), it had been weeks since master and padawan had touched, except in function or in passing. Obi-Wan had initially tried not to let the conversation bother him, appealing to his own sense of logic to rationalize it and releasing his negative emotions about it into the Force, as he had been taught. Soon, despite the encouragement to maintain his behaviors inside their private quarters, he found himself seeking out his master’s touch with less and less frequency. Eventually he didn’t approach his master in a physical manner at all, and stifled flinches when Qui-Gon approached him unbidden.

One morning, Obi-Wan emerged from the fresher with his padawan braid already plaited and tied off. Qui-Gon, although initially surprised, merely nodded once and said nothing. Obi-Wan pretended he hadn’t noticed the sadness in his master’s eyes. 

In the cycles that had passed since that conversation, Obi-Wan had grown increasingly tense. He spoke only when spoken to, and spent the rest of the time in a sullen daze. He maintained a distance of at least a meter between Qui-Gon and himself at all times. Unfortunately, this change in behavior only brought about more stares from passersby who had come to recognize the pair of them as being joined at the hip. His classes were suffering, especially lightsaber, in which he was focusing less on technique and more on graceless power. Although his sheer strength won him nearly every battle against his peers, he knew he was losing ground quickly in form. He had no focus; his connection with the Force was taught like a bowstring. Every day, he felt Qui-Gon’s eyes watching him in sparring practice, examining every move. The previously reassuring gaze now made him grit his teeth in frustration.

“Stop.” 

Qui-Gon’s quiet but authoritative tone broke his battle haze, freezing him mid-lunge. Coming back to his senses, he helped his fellow padawan to her feet, trying to ignore her wide eyes and the way her legs trembled with exhaustion. They bowed to each other, and turned to face the Jedi master for critique. Qui-Gon merely stroked his beard thoughtfully, drawing out the silence until Obi-Wan thought he might scream.

“Thank you, Padawan Tachi, you are dismissed,” Qui-Gon said to the girl. “Obi-Wan, come with me.”

Obi-Wan huffed, clipping his lightsaber to his belt in an exaggerated movement that he knew came across as petulant. He scrubbed the sweat off of his brow and pounded down the stairs of the practice ring, following Qui-Gon’s enormous form. The walk back to their quarters was spent in complete silence, Obi-Wan fairly fuming for reasons even he didn’t understand. His mind roiled like thunderclouds before a storm, passing through emotions faster than he could examine them. Frustration, anger, loathing, directed at himself, yes, but also at Qui-Gon, for reasons he couldn’t explain. The toxic feelings he was having toward his master unsettled him deeply and left a sour taste in his mouth.

Upon entering their quarters, Qui-Gon pointed firmly at the couch, indicating for Obi-Wan to sit as the other man left the common area and entered their shared fresher. Obi-Wan sat, feeling uneasy and anticipating a lecture, though he sensed nothing negative from his master. Qui-Gon returned, a bottle of massage oil in his hand, and told Obi-Wan to remove his tunic. Shortly after, he felt his master’s broad hands set to work on his neck and shoulders, pressing and pulling at the knotted muscles there. It was far more painful than any other massage he had experienced, and it wasn’t until he felt Qui-Gon’s soft rumble of a voice in his head saying _relax_ that he even realized he had been holding his breath. He dropped his shoulders, which had somehow wound up around his ears, and focused on belly breathing as the tension was forcibly removed from his muscles. 

Nearly an hour later, Obi-Wan was humming with contentment, luxuriating in the firm strokes of his master’s hands. He nearly whimpered as the hands withdrew, opening his eyes slowly to see Qui-Gon, silhouetted by the beginnings of the Coruscanti sunset, wiping his hands on a towel and taking a seat next to Obi-Wan.

“Now,” Qui-Gon said, tossing the towel gently onto the table in front of them and folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Although I feel as though I understand the cause of your recent behavior, I am not as certain that you understand it yourself. Take a few moments for reflection, please. You may discuss it aloud, if you feel that will help.”

Obi-Wan hesitated. What behavior was Qui-Gon referring to, exactly? His sparring? His sullen attitude? His aversion to his master’s touch?

“I have been unhappy lately…” Obi-Wan began tentatively, feeling out his master’s intentions.

“Elaborate. Describe your emotions.”

“Frustration, mostly. Anxiety,” Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “Anger… fear.”

“To whom or what are these feelings directed?”

“To myself, for my performance in class. And my attitude.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper, shame coloring his face. “And towards you, although I’m unsure why.”

Qui-Gon’s face remained impassive. “Think, Padawan. You know the answer.”

Obi-Wan took a deep breath as he pondered his feelings. “I feel… resentment towards you, and yearning, as though you’ve taken something from me, and I want it back. But that isn’t true; you’ve never taken anything from me, Master. You’ve only ever given of yourself, anything I needed, anything I asked for.”

“Is there something you want that you haven’t asked for?”

“No!” Obi-Wan exclaimed quickly. Too quickly. He felt a sharp pinch in his chest. As always, Qui-Gon had ascertained the source of his problems before he had himself. His master merely looked at him, radiating patience. Obi-Wan sighed. “Yes. But I feel too selfish to ask.”

“What is it?”

Obi-Wan looked down and put his head in his hands. He could feel his face heating in embarrassment. Why was this so difficult?

“Obi-Wan, there is no cause for you to feel ashamed. Tell me. It is as important for you to speak this aloud as it is for me to hear it.”

“I… miss when we used to be affectionate with one another. For some reason, I feel as though we have grown distant, to the point that you hardly seem like my master any more. But that doesn’t make sense. You wouldn’t push me away like that. At least I hope not.” He felt a dull ache of sadness from his master. “It must be something I’ve done, then. It’s just that, whenever I touch you, it feels different than it used to when I was younger. It feels… wrong. And the thought that keeps coming unbidden to my mind is that loving you is wrong somehow, and I…” Obi-Wan swallowed roughly past the lump in his throat. He pulled his fingers through his hair, tugging sharply at the short strands to distract him from the prickle of tears in his eyes. “I fear that I can’t bear it.”

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon sighed, his voice taut with emotion. Obi-Wan felt his master’s long fingers clasp gently around his wrist, pulling his hand from his face and his body to rest against the broad, familiar chest. He curled against the other man, grasping at the front of his tunics and feeling impossibly small. Qui-Gon’s voice, when he spoke, resonated deep in Obi-Wan’s head. “I did not foresee my comments about your affectionate behavior taking root in you so deeply and causing you such pain, and for that I apologize. Sometimes your progress and maturity blind me into thinking you can handle more than you should. You have such an old soul, my padawan, that I am prone to forgetting the young body in which it resides.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath, trying desperately to hold back the sob that threatened to escape his lips. Qui-Gon’s hand began rubbing soothing circles in his bare back as he continued speaking.

“This intense desire you feel for physical contact, particularly from those whom you love and respect, is your body’s natural way of preparing you for its entrance into sexual maturity.” Obi-Wan opened his mouth to disagree--this had nothing whatsoever to do with sex; he didn’t find his master erotic in any stretch of the imagination--but Qui-Gon silenced him with a gentle finger to his bottom lip. “I know your feelings are not currently of a sexual nature, but they soon will be, and in this is where your conflict lies. You know that you desire physical contact with me, but you also know the taboo of sexual contact between master and padawan, and your confusion on the topic has caused you to refrain from expressions of affection all together. What you need to learn, my dear Padawan, is that your body’s need for touch is just as serious as its need for food or water. Yes, you can ignore these needs, or meditate in the Force to quell their intensity, but eventually you must succumb, or face severe consequences. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said, rising from the warmth of his mentor’s chest to look him in the eyes. He really did understand what Qui-Gon was saying. It explained a lot, actually--namely the tension he had been carrying in his body for weeks now. But, there was something else... “What I don’t understand is with whom I’m meant to satisfy such needs if contact with you is forbidden.”

“First of all, contact between a master and padawan is not forbidden. No, not even sexual contact. During our conversation several cycles ago I merely meant to impress upon you the awareness of how some cultures might view our relationship. It was not intended to be an embargo on all physicality. Secondly, most padawans seek to satisfy their needs with their peers. Did you not fill such needs without second thought when you were younglings in the creche?” Obi-Wan nodded. “Examine your current relationships and meditate on ways to expand them physically. I suspect you will find that your friends will welcome the affection. However, there are three things to keep in mind as you enter this new stage of your life. One, physical relationships are first and foremost consensual; do not express yourself physically to someone who does not share your affection. Two, platonic relations can be just as satisfying to your needs as sexual relations. Do not place such importance on sex that you forget to cultivate platonic physical relationships all together. And three, no matter what your age or maturity, I will always be available to you to fulfill your need for contact. I am an old man, Padawan, and have all but forgotten the acute need for physical touch that accompanies youth, and for that I apologize. As your master it is my duty to provide for all of your needs, mind, body, and spirit. In my ignorance of your youth I have failed you, and for that I hope you can forgive me.”

Obi-Wan practically lunged forward to wrap his arms tightly around his master’s neck. He sighed, breathing in the clean, earthy scent of Qui-Gon’s long hair, practically alight with relief and joy. “Of course I forgive you, Master.”

He felt more than heard Qui-Gon’s deep chuckle.

“For that, and for everything else about you, I am grateful,” Qui-Gon said, bringing his hand up to stroke gently at Obi-Wan’s hair. “Your spirit is a precious thing to behold, dear one, and I find that I have missed its light these past few weeks. To be your teacher is a great honor, and I have no doubt that someday you will be a greater Jedi than I could ever hope to become.”

Obi-Wan pulled back sharply to look into his master’s eyes. With his arms still draped around Qui-Gon’s neck, their faces were mere inches apart. He searched the serious grey-blue eyes before him and found only affection.

“Don’t say that, Master. You are the greatest Jedi I have yet to meet. Wiser than Master Yoda, stronger than Master Windu, with an unrivaled connection to the Living Force… I could never surpass you, not in a thousand lifetimes.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he fought back a smile. “It seems to me that you have been stricken with a common case of hero-worship. Now, off to the fresher with you. You need a shower before supper, and if I recall correctly, you have yet to finish that essay on the history of the seven katas that is due tomorrow. Also, don’t let Master Windu hear that speech of yours. I would never live it down.”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan replied, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on his master’s cheek before disentangling himself and retreating to follow orders. He paused at the door of the fresher, taking a moment to observe Qui-Gon’s serene figure, still seated facing away from him. “Master?”

“Padawan?” Qui-Gon mimicked, mirth inherent in his tone.

“You love me, don’t you?”

Qui-Gon turned to look at his padawan, his face a sudden mask of solemnity that gave Obi-Wan goosebumps.

“More than you can yet comprehend."

Obi-Wan nodded resolutely, satisfied with the answer, and set about his tasks for the evening, nurturing a blossom of warmth in his belly that didn’t relent for several days thereafter.


	2. Maybe we can find new ways to fall apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I gave it to you months ago  
> I know you’re trying to forget  
> But between the drinks and subtle things  
> The holes in my apologies, you know  
> I’m trying hard to take it back
> 
> \--Fun., "We Are Young"

At eighteen, Obi-Wan took his master’s touch for granted.

Returning from the interview with the Jedi Council, he felt lighter than air. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that he had hovered a few centimeters above the ground the entire way back to his quarters. The meeting had been a big deal; it would determine if his class performance was satisfactory enough to “graduate” from the classrooms and join his master on missions full-time. Of course they had been on missions together, but the Council was always very clear that missions came second to lessons, and as such, they were only assigned to something about once a cycle, usually on Coruscant. But this meeting... He had been a nervous wreck for days in anticipation. The chance to join Qui-Gon on thrilling jaunts across the galaxy, every day for the next several years? The potential alone was almost more than he could handle. He wanted to stretch his arms, reach out to the stars and grab them, keep them in his pocket where he could replay them like a holo, again and again until he was so happy he couldn’t bear it.

And now, it was all possible. The meeting had gone very well.

The gentle hiss of the front door of their quarters closing behind him barely registered in his ears. (How fast had he been walking? He had just left the council chambers a few seconds ago… Right?) Qui-Gon was patiently waiting on the couch in as surreptitious a manner as a man of his stature could manage. Although he sat grasping a data pad in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, Obi-Wan got the distinct impression that the datapad had not been turned on in several hours, and the cup of tea in his hand was ice cold. Obi-Wan briefly recalled that an hour prior, as he had left for the evaluation, Qui-Gon had been rigidly preparing that very same cup of tea, pausing only to give Obi-Wan a tight embrace and a rasp of “May the Force be with you.” Despite his (almost hilariously) calm exterior, Qui-Gon had clearly spent the last hour meditating through some anxiety over the whole ordeal. Obi-Wan knew that he had been leaking worry and anticipation through their bond since he had received the invitation to be evaluated two days prior, but he hadn’t a clue that Qui-Gon was being affected so strongly. Now that Obi-Wan was back in their quarters and clearly less tense, Qui-Gon seemed to unclench just a little.

“Master,” Obi-Wan said with a straight-faced nod, breezing past Qui-Gon in the common area and into the kitchenette, hoping to string his master along for a little while longer. He grasped the teapot (still cold, as he had suspected), set it to heat, and began preparing two fresh cups of tea. He spent the minutes waiting for the water to boil flat-out ignoring Qui-Gon, from whom he could feel crackles of amusement and impatience along their bond. Verbal chicken was a long-standing game of theirs, inspired by Obi-Wan’s past frustrations at his master’s seemingly unshakeable exterior. Neither of them mentioned the game aloud, but Obi-Wan was certain that they each kept a mental tally of “who spoke first?”

After the tea was ready, Obi-Wan brought the two hot cups to set on the low table in front of Qui-Gon, who, although having abandoned his props, was still pretending to be completely uninterested in his padawan’s actions. Obi-Wan paused, taking stock of his master, and bit back a smirk. Qui-Gon was watching him casually, so still and impassive that he could have been doing an impression of one of the bronze Jedi Masters in the Temple’s library. _So that’s how you’re going to play it…_ Obi-Wan grabbed Qui-Gon’s cold cup of tea from the table, and retreated again to the kitchenette, feeling the weight of Qui-Gon’s stare follow him.

When Obi-Wan lost the game, which was more often than not, it was usually due to his being unable to bear the feeling of constantly being watched, especially by Qui-Gon. The man’s leonine eyes invoked the feeling of being prey, about to be toyed with and eaten. _Not this time,_ Obi-Wan thought to himself. _Not today. Today, the padawan has the advantage_.

Obi-Wan proceeded to wash the teacup with such finesse and attention to detail that he began to wonder if there was an award for such things. Advanced teacup washing? Surely, somewhere, someone had invented a competition of sorts for the cleaning of tableware. Probably in some system like Naboo, where cleanliness and decorum were highly prized. Obi-Wan made a mental note to look it up the next time he was in the archives, and set about drying the cup in a similarly focused manner. After nearly five minutes spent on one teacup, Obi-Wan realized he was running out of ways to stall. Just as he was considering taking the clean dishes out of the cabinets and washing those individually as well, Qui-Gon cleared his throat.

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon said, his tone completely neutral and in no way revealing the mirth and irritation that Obi-Wan could feel coming off of him in waves. “If you do not _sit down_ and tell me how your meeting with the council went, I fear I may resort to violence.”

Obi-Wan laughed, conceding his position in the kitchenette and approaching the couch where Qui-Gon sat. “Violence? Surely not. The Great Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn would never resort to such impulsive tactics when a resolution could be reached just as easily through negotiation.”

“Negotiation, you say? Interesting…” And with a flutter of robes, Obi-Wan suddenly found himself seated next to Qui-Gon on the couch, wrapped in a headlock, and laughing hysterically. Qui-Gon ruffled Obi-Wan’s hair with his free hand. “How’s that for negotiation?”

“I--ahh, stop!” Obi-Wan wrenched himself out of the headlock just as he felt long fingers begin to tickle his sides. He righted himself, gasping and rubbing tears of mirth from his eyes. “I’m unfamiliar with this technique, Master. Whatever is it called?”

He turned to find Qui-Gon, ever the picture of reason and serenity, sipping his fresh cup of tea without a hair out of place.

“Aggressive negotiations. Now, are you going to tell me how the meeting went, or must we continue… negotiating?” Qui-Gon’s comically predatory sideways glance made Obi-Wan laugh.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Obi-Wan chuckled, grabbing the data pad from the table and settling into the crook of his master’s shoulder. He pulled up the summary of his performance that he had been given at the end of the evaluation. “Here we are. I passed. Obviously.”

“I expected nothing less.”

“Please,” Obi-Wan scoffed, gently jabbing an elbow into Qui-Gon’s side. “Don’t peddle your ‘will of the Force’ speech on me. You were just as worried as I was.”

“Padawan, I have nothing but the utmost faith in your capabilities,” Qui-Gon replied dramatically, feigning hurt, and earning himself another (harder) jab in the side.

“Anyways, my strongest area was saber technique, followed by piloting and political negotiation. Hardly a surprise, I know.” Obi-Wan felt the beginnings of a blush creeping up his neck. Ever since he had bested his Advanced Mediation instructor in a debate about interpretations of the Jedi Code, he had had something of a reputation.

“And your weakest area?”

Obi-Wan sighed. Sometimes it felt as though Qui-Gon would rather focus on his failures than his successes.

“Mastery of languages. Also not surprising. However, I managed to convince the Council that apart from being able to converse in the most spoken languages in the galaxy, it makes little sense to focus such time on studying obscure dialects when I could use the time to study other important topics. Besides, it is much more practical to study a language prior to a mission, when you know which phrases and protocol will be relevant to that case.”

“Putting your skills in negotiation to use, I see,” Qui-Gon chuckled, bringing up his arm to squeeze Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “If only I could have seen Mace’s reaction… I’m sure it was one for the record books.”

“It was,” Obi-Wan agreed effusively. Comfortable silence fell upon them, broken only when Obi-Wan squirmed, recalling the portion of the meeting just after Master Windu’s reaction to his argument.

“What troubles you, Padawan?” Qui-Gon asked gently, giving Obi-Wan’s ponytail a playful tug.

“Something Master Yoda said, about my skills of negotiation,” Obi-Wan mumbled, feeling just as confused as he had in the Council chambers. “I’m uncertain what he meant by it.”

“May I?” Qui-Gon asked, nudging at their bond with the intent of viewing Obi-Wan’s memory of the event. Reluctantly, Obi-Wan let him in, and together they fell into the events of an hour prior.

_He had just finished presenting his argument against the rote memorization of rare languages to the Council. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears and his face beginning to flush. (He may have gotten a touch over excited.) The looks on the faces of the Council members ranged from impressed to incredulous to amused to annoyed. Master Windu seemed to be expressing each of those emotions simultaneously._

_“Against any creature with blood in their veins, a formidable opponent you will make, young Kenobi,” Yoda chuckled, his ears twitching in delight (although Obi-Wan suspected the delight was aimed less at his performance and more at Master Windu’s current imitation of a Mon Calamarian fresh out of the water). “Suffice for now, your theory will.”_

_Master Windu turned to Yoda, snapping his jaw shut with a clack. His eyes seemed to ask a silent question._

_“No, aware he is not,” Yoda replied to the unspoken inquiry. “And therein the beauty lies.”_

Obi-Wan pulled abruptly out of the memory, dragging Qui-Gon with him. He set the data pad on the table and turned in his seat to face his master.

“What did Yoda mean, Master? Of what am I unaware?”

“Oh, many things, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said with a grin, clearly still relishing the secondhand viewing of Master Windu’s reaction. He settled back into the arm of the couch, his expression sobering as he regarded Obi-Wan. He seemed to be at a loss for words, which happened so rarely that Obi-Wan felt his stomach clench. “What do you think Yoda meant?”

Obi-Wan felt a spark of irritation. He knew that Qui-Gon was stalling for time. His master’s constant pestering was usually intended to help Obi-Wan sharpen his reasoning skills, but sometimes he just wanted to know the answer and be done with it. Every moment didn’t need to become a teaching moment.

“He _literally_ said that I am not aware of whatever it is that he found so amusing,” Obi-Wan said, biting off the words sharply and trying desperately to keep his frustration out of his voice. “How exactly is it that I am supposed to figure it out unless someone tells me?”

“Watch your tone, Padawan, unless you desire an evening of conditioning drills in the gymnasium.” Qui-Gon’s voice was serious, but his eyes betrayed his amusement. “Fair enough. Master Yoda was referring to your physical beauty.”

“My… What? My, my… Wait, _what?”_

“Eloquently put,” Qui-Gon said with a lopsided grin. He tilted his head and viewed Obi-Wan like a specimen under a microscope. He nodded minutely, more to himself than anything else, and murmured, “You really don’t know, do you?”

Obi-Wan was too busy doing an impression of Master Windu’s fish-out-of-water face to reply.

“Surely, you have noticed the attention you’ve received in the Temple. Lingering glances, your plethora of friends and acquaintances, how you’ve never needed to wait for a sparring partner…”

“I… I thought they were envious of my position as your padawan, eager to learn from me that which I have learned from you.”

“You flatter me, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said, mirth dancing in his eyes. “Perhaps that was true when you were younger, but now… Now, the attention you receive is solely your own.”

“I’m confused, Master,” Obi-Wan said, shaking his head as if to clear the uncertainty from it. “What would my physical appearance, pleasant or otherwise, have to do with my aptitude for debate?”

“Imagine, if you would, being unbearably hungry, the hungriest you’ve ever been. Now, imagine that you must enter into a debate, and your opponent is holding a bowl of Corellian stew.” Qui-Gon paused as the weight of his words settled heavily in Obi-Wan’s mind. “You can imagine how difficult it would be to emerge victorious under such circumstances.”

“Surely, it can’t be that bad!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, flustered. This new information hit him like a club upside the head. Was that really how everyone saw him? As a piece of meat they were desperate to devour?

“It isn’t, not for everyone,” Qui-Gon assured. “Many species do not find humanoids such as ourselves appealing in the slightest. But of those that do, you are considered physically attractive, yes.” Qui-Gon paused, looking into Obi-Wan’s eyes searchingly and with a hint of confusion. “You’ve told me that you have been propositioned before, many times. Surely, you must have had some inkling before now.”

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said, feeling the words with his entire being. He had never been as confused as he was in that moment. What did it all mean? Were his friendships a sham, based only on one-sided physical desire? What thoughts were going through the minds of those whose eyes lingered on him in the cafeteria? What did they want to do to him? What did they want _him_ to do to _them_? He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, thinking back through years of confusing conversations, unwanted advances, gross misunderstandings. “I mean, I have been approached by people looking to engage in sexual congress. I’ve never said yes, though.” At this Qui-Gon seemed surprised. “I’ve never felt the need, or the desire, to… do that. With anyone. Not yet, at least. The people whose propositions I’ve declined have seemed just as satisfied seeking their pleasure elsewhere. I guess I assumed that my friends who’ve propositioned me were simply doing so out of friendship, not out of some desire to have sex with me.”

“There are times when sex is something borne of friendship, yes,” Qui-Gon said slowly, as if trying to phrase this as gently as possible. “But for many people, the majority of sexual desire is inspired by their partner’s physical form. Have you never admired a friend’s body, and entertained thoughts of engaging with them sexually?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, becoming worried. “No, never. I’ve admired the beauty of my friends, but more so because of our kindred spirits than because of any aspect of their bodies. Master, this is making me uncomfortable,” Obi-Wan said with a hint of panic in his voice. This whole conversation was starting to feel like a cruel joke. “Is there something wrong with me? Something I’m not doing right?”

“Not at all, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said gently, reaching out a hand to grip Obi-Wan’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’m merely surprised. Most masters face the battle of keeping their padawans from spending all their free time in bed with a lover. I have to admit, I am at a loss for how to deal with the opposite.”

Now he was something to be “dealt with”? Obi-Wan shrugged off Qui-Gon’s hand and stood, feeling sick. He wavered a moment before turning and heading resolutely to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Council chambers. I’m going to ask them for a re-evaluation in political negotiation. I don’t want a score I didn’t earn.”

“Obi-Wan, wait.”

He paused at the door, unable to defy a direct order from his master, even now. He turned to see Qui-Gon, still seated on the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and motioning Obi-Wan closer with the other. Obi-Wan approached, but didn’t sit. He still felt nauseous, and angry, and confused, and so many other things that he didn’t have words for all of it.

“I may have handled this situation poorly.”

Obi-Wan snorted in derision. That was an understatement if he’d ever heard one. He sobered quickly, however, when Qui-Gon’s eyes met his with a warning look.

“You are in the unfortunate position of being given an unwanted gift. Now you can choose to fight against it, or you can choose to use it to your advantage. I suggest you choose the latter.”

“You want me to use my body to entice people against their will? Against _my_ will?” Obi-Wan asked, feeling hysterical, like a wounded animal about to snap. This day had been going so well before Qui-Gon had told him all this nonsense about him being some kind of sex god. It was all so radically unfair that he felt on the verge of screaming. “Maybe I should seduce people into getting what I want from now on. Is that what you’re saying? Maybe on our next mission we can skip the negotiations all together! Who needs diplomacy when I can _fuck_ my way to political peace!”

“You know perfectly well that is not what I meant!”

Qui-Gon was standing now, towering over Obi-Wan, his eyes sparking and his voice full of thunder. _Must have hit a nerve,_ Obi-Wan mused bitterly. _Good._

“Stop being petulant, Obi-Wan. In time you will learn to appreciate what you have been given as the gift that it is. Until that day comes, you must learn to make peace with it. I will be willing to help you only when you are willing to cooperate. Your disrespect wounds me. If you had said that to any other master you would be facing severe consequences.”

“Punish me, then!” Obi-Wan shouted, his voice cracking. “What are you waiting for? Are you afraid of your _feelings_ for me? Is that what this whole thing has been about?”

Qui-Gon’s eyes were full of hurt and anger, boring into Obi-Wan’s skull with enough force that it physically hurt him. Obi-Wan felt himself begin to shatter.

“Just say it!” He screamed, feeling tears streaking hotly down his face. “Say you want to fuck me like _everybody else in this kriffing galaxy!”_

Before the last sentence was even out of his mouth, Qui-Gon had brushed past him and out of the door. Obi-Wan grabbed the data pad from the table and threw it across the room, screaming in rage as it shattered against the wall. The sight of cracked glass and plastic wrenched him out of his red haze, and he collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

 

\--

 

Obi-Wan awoke what must have been several hours later, judging by the darkness of their quarters. He sat up--how had he ended up on the couch?--shrugging off a blanket he hadn’t remembered grabbing. Immediately he felt Qui-Gon’s presence nearby, only a few meters away in his bedchamber, awake but meditating. The closed door between them felt like the twist of a knife in his chest. They may as well be planets away for all the emotional distance between them, and it was, as usual, all Obi-Wan’s fault.

He stood, stretching the knots out of his muscles. His head throbbed fiercely and his mouth was dry and sour. A “grief hangover,” Qui-Gon had called it once. _Qui-Gon._ The knife twisted in his chest again.

He stumbled into the kitchenette, managing to chug the entire glass of tepid water that he found on the counter before he even noticed the plate of food that it had been sitting next to. He had somehow managed to sleep through the evening meal, which meant that Qui-Gon had saved food for him. He refilled his glass, pulled up a stool, and set in, noticing only once the cold food had entered his mouth that he was starving.

Obi-Wan had devoured nearly the entire meal before he noticed the corner of a small piece of paper peeking out from under the edge of the plate. He tugged it out, recognizing Qui-Gon’s graceful script immediately.

 

_Obi-Wan,_

_We have been assigned a mission to mediate the peaceful resolution of a dispute between the planetary systems of Kiffu and Kiffex. Pack your things. Our transport leaves at dawn._

 

Well, that was just perfect. Less than a day after his worst-ever fight with Qui-Gon, they were going to have to spend six days of interstellar travel together, followed by Force knew how long of political mediation. Truthfully, Obi-Wan felt he deserved it after the things he had said.

Obi-Wan proceeded to clean his dishes and pack, feeling positively nauseous as he replayed the fight in his head. He had said such horrible things, things he knew weren’t even slightly true. It was one of his worst characteristics: the tendency to lash out at friends in his confusion instead of pausing for contemplation. As he readied himself for bed, he resolved to seek the counsel of Master Yoda as soon as they returned from their mission, to work on his temper; he was too old to be flinging hurtful words at his master whenever the whimsy took. Shame overtook him as he realized how childish he must have seemed to Qui-Gon, the man who always lauded his maturity and level-headedness. It was supposed to be a happy day, a day full of the promise of years of future adventures with his master. Had the day gone as intended, he would be tossing and turning with excitement at that moment, instead of dread.

After three hours of lying awake, replaying the day in his head and thoroughly loathing himself, Obi-Wan gave up. He would never be able to sleep at this rate. He crawled out of his bed and left his room, taking a seat on the floor in front of the large windows in the common area. This was Qui-Gon’s favorite place in their quarters to meditate, and Obi-Wan hoped the mental closeness would be enough to soothe his roiling mind. He fell into meditation restlessly, fidgeting and fighting his way to a state of relative calm.

He emerged from his trance just as the sky had begun to lighten. As his awareness returned to him, he first noticed Qui-Gon’s presence, seated immediately to his left. Obi-Wan opened his eyes and turned to look at his master, who was (as always) the very epitome of serenity. His hair was damp and braided down his ramrod straight back, and his packed bag was placed next to him. It was almost their scheduled departure time, and yet here he was, patiently waiting for Obi-Wan to emerge from meditation. Obi-Wan felt sick again. A night of meditation had helped with his anger and fear, but he still felt the guilt and shame as acutely as the day before--even more so with Qui-Gon’s calm presence less than an arm’s length away.

“Are you ready to leave?” Qui-Gon asked quietly, without opening his eyes. His voice gave nothing away. Obi-Wan suddenly felt cold.

“Yes, master.”

 

\--

 

They were two days into the six day trip and Obi-Wan was losing his mind. It was just the two of them on the tiny ship. After Qui-Gon had entered the coordinates and activated the hyperdrive, there was nothing to do but talk--or try very hard to avoid talking.

Luckily Obi-Wan hand his hands full. Kiffaran was one of the languages he didn’t speak, and although the majority of the Kiffar people also spoke Basic, he was determined to prove to the Jedi Council that he had been right about his lax attitude towards languages. He had six days to become fluent--okay, functional--in Kiffaran, and he was going to do it if it killed him.

(He also got the distinct feeling that Master Yoda had chosen this mission for them knowing that Obi-Wan had never studied Kiffaran, just to see how Obi-Wan would react. Sometimes that little green troll really pissed him off. He was definitely reconsidering his decision to seek Yoda’s counsel upon their return.)

It was late in the simulated night cycle on the second day of their journey when Obi-Wan snapped. He had been studying this kriffing language non-stop since they had left Coruscant. Unfortunately for him, the Kiffaran alphabet had 137 characters, each of which looked painfully similar. He had spent the first day just learning letters and piecing them together to form words, and the second day stringing words together into sentences. He hadn’t even scratched the surface of pronunciation and intonation, which he knew was a mistake, but who was he going to practice with? Qui-Gon? Yes, the Jedi master was fluent in Kiffaran, as a bi-product of his friendship with Master Quinlan Vos, a native of Kiffu, and would be a great help in Obi-Wan’s studies. However, he had yet to apologize, and with every minute that passed, the thought of doing so became more and more unbearable.

Obi-Wan threaded his hands through his hair and pulled at the strands until his scalp stung, groaning aloud in frustration. He was exhausted, and getting nowhere, and knew that staying up longer would do more damage than good. He hated that the voice in his head that was telling him these things sounded like Qui-Gon. He shoved the data pad from which he had been studying away forcefully, and stood from his spot in the ship’s cramped dining area to go to bed.

“Please be careful, you’ve already broken one data pad this week.”

Somehow Qui-Gon had appeared, silently as ever, and stood between Obi-Wan and his intended destination, the sleeping quarters. Obi-Wan could have sworn that his master went to sleep hours ago… Was he that distracted that he hadn’t noticed Qui-Gon had been awake this whole time? Qui-Gon was dressed for sleep, his sleeping tunic rumpled and his hair loose around his shoulders, but his eyes were as alert as ever.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, not meaning it in the slightest. Somehow he still felt angry towards Qui-Gon, even though he knew his anger was misplaced. He motioned lamely to the doorway behind Qui-Gon. “I was just going to bed.”

“Please do,” Qui-Gon said softly. “I’m finding it difficult to sleep knowing you’re out here.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Obi-Wan said tightly, edging past Qui-Gon’s giantesque form into the ship’s only sleeping quarters. Qui-Gon followed him silently and resumed his position in the bunk on the left side of the room; Obi-Wan took the bed on the right side. It had never been a problem for the two of them to share a room in the past. Oftentimes, they had even shared the same bed, out of a lack of space or a need for warmth or comfort. This night, however, Obi-Wan felt awkward lying only meters away from his master. He missed the impersonal walls of their quarters in the Temple. The unresolved tension was still strung between them, even as they lay silently in separate beds, and if Obi-Wan hadn’t been so exhausted, he would have found sleeping difficult. Fortunately, he slipped into a coma-like sleep within seconds of hitting the pillow.

… Only to awake, an indeterminate amount of time later, heart pounding and gasping for air. The nightmare had been so quick, he had already forgotten most of it. Just glimpses--fire, tortured eyes, screams, blood--were enough to leave him shaking. He hadn’t had this particular nightmare in years (as a youngling, he’d had it almost nightly), and its return unsettled him deeply. Obi-Wan reached through the bond for his master, finding him awake in the other bed and equally unsettled. Before he had the chance to think properly, Obi-Wan found himself scrambling out of his bed and into his master’s, diving under the blanket to wrap himself tightly around Qui-Gon’s prone form. After a muffled “oof!” of surprise on impact, Qui-Gon rotated so they were lying chest-to-chest, and Obi-Wan felt strong arms wrap around him.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan rasped, not even attempting to mask the emotion in his voice. He pressed his face into the tunic-covered chest and tried to breathe evenly. He could still feel his heartbeat in his ears. Nothing like heart-pounding terror to make a man rethink his decisions.

“I know,” Qui-Gon murmured, clutching Obi-Wan more tightly to his chest. “I am too.”

Obi-Wan spent the next several minutes crying himself into oblivion and making an absolute mess of Qui-Gon’s shirt. Qui-Gon, ever the gracious master, said nothing, rubbing soothing circles into Obi-Wan’s back until he drifted into a dreamless sleep. The two spent that night, and each of the remaining three nights of their journey, tangled tightly together, silently relishing the other’s touch and healing slowly from shared wounds.


	3. Somewhere only we know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And if you have a minute why don't we go  
> Talk about it somewhere only we know?  
> This could be the end of everything  
> So why don't we go  
> Somewhere only we know?
> 
> \--Keane, "Somewhere Only We Know"

At twenty-two, Obi-Wan thought he may never feel his master’s touch again.

He awoke slowly, feeling as though he was emerging from a pool of syrup. He body felt like lead, and his senses were clouded to the point where it seemed as though everything was being observed from a great distance. After attempting to open his eyes only to find his lids unbearably heavy and the light seeping through them near-blinding, he quickly squeezed them shut again. He stretched his limbs, noticing a subtle ache in his entire body; however, everything seemed functional, if only sluggish. He attempted to sit up, and regretted it immediately. Sharp pain stabbed through his left side, pulsing hot and encompassing the entire stretch from underarm to hip bone. He cried out and found himself being gently forced back to the surface upon which he lay by several pairs of hands. After a few moments of urgent murmurs and an incessant beeping that only seemed to be getting louder, he felt his thoughts begin to congeal as the syrup dragged him back into its depths.

The second time he awoke, his senses returned to him more quickly and less clouded. He lay perfectly still, recalling the results of his last attempt to move (namely, excruciating pain and sedation), and decided to stay put for now. He expanded his awareness to the space around him: there was a quiet beeping, much less urgent than the beeping he had induced the last time, coming from somewhere above his head; the air reeked of bacta and disinfectant; the pads of his fingers rubbed lightly against scratchy sheets. He was in the Healer’s Ward, then. He tentatively stretched his muscles, feeling the same dull full-body ache and immediately recognizing that he was restrained around the wrists, ankles, and chest. Someone who knew him well had taken dire measures to keep him prone, should he desire an encore performance of his previous misapprehension.

“Bant?” Obi-Wan rasped, immediately recognizing the familiar presence that all but oozed exasperation and concern. He opened his eyes, took a moment to adjust to the light, and found the Mon Calamarian leaning over his face, examining him worriedly.

“Welcome back!” Bant exclaimed gently, a smile spreading across her moist face. “How are you feeling?”

“Restrained,” Obi-Wan replied, swallowing thickly. His mouth felt like it was full of dust. Bant snickered.

“I can only remove the restraints if you promise not to run away.”

“Do you really think I can run? Because I certainly don’t.”

Bant gave him a pointed look.

“Fine, I promise I won’t run away. Do you have something I can drink?”

Bant’s visage moved out of his view, and he felt the padded bindings being removed from his body. The upper half of the bed began to rise, causing the pain in his side to throb viciously. By the time he was in an upright position, panting and sweating, Bant had returned with a tray table and two plastifoam cups of liquid. He took the cup she offered him and he proceeded to down the entire cup of cold water in one long draw.

“Slowly!” Bant chided attempting to take the cup back before he was finished. Obi-Wan pushed her hand gently but firmly away. She heaved a weary sigh, shaking her head dramatically. “You’ve always been terrible about following your healer’s instructions.”

“Something terrible must have happened for you to become my healer,” Obi-Wan said with a wry grin. Bant attempted to look annoyed, and failed miserably. She leaned over and planted a wet kiss on his forehead.

“I’m glad you’re back, Obi. I was worried for a while.”

“I am too. Why am I here, though? What happened?”

“You’ve been sedated for about two days,” Bant said gently, settling back into a chair next to the bed. “They tried to bring you out yesterday, but you reacted… poorly. Hence the restraints.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly, rubbing the scruff on his chin and wishing for a shave. Recalling the pain that had accompanied his lame escape attempt, he reached down to pull the standard-issue patient tunic away from his left side. His left underarm, upper chest and entire torso were covered in deep purplish black bruises. He trailed his fingers gingerly over the bruises, feeling tenderly for broken bones.

“I did a marvellous job, didn’t I?” Obi-Wan muttered, dancing fingertips over the darkness blooming beneath his skin. His muddled mind observed that in an abstract light, the bruises were almost beautiful. If only they weren’t so painful to obtain...

“Yes, you certainly did,” Bant replied, longsuffering sarcasm evident in her tone. “You encountered some pretty serious blunt-force trauma. Six broken ribs, soundly beating your previous record. The majority of the problem was the internal bleeding. The fact that your suit wasn’t breached or your lung punctured is nothing short of miraculous.”

“My suit…” Obi-Wan mumbled, tugging the tunic back down over his stomach. Blurs of memories were flitting past him, too fast and slippery to grasp. Something about his suit, something important…

“Wait, where’s Qui-Gon?” Obi-Wan asked suddenly, feeling guilty for not having thought about his master, who had probably been the one to carry his lifeless body out of whatever dire situation they had landed themselves in this time. “I’m surprised he’s not pacing out in the hall right now.”

“He’s asleep,” Bant said, pushing another cup at him, this one full of fruit juice. Obi-Wan took it and sipped, noticing the way she avoided his gaze. Her eyes flicked up to his, meeting his stare as though it was a challenge. “You look just like him, you know, when you look at me like that.” Obi-Wan snapped out of his one-sided staring contest and chuckled softly. “I’m not lying to you. It’s the middle of the night. You ought to be asleep right now as well. I’m sure you’ll see him first thing in the morning.”

Obi-Wan nodded, satisfied with the answer. He suddenly felt exhausted. Bant took the cup from his hand just as it started to tilt with fatigue, threatening to spill juice on the bed. Her glance just about screamed “I told you so,” but he just shrugged good-naturedly and gave her a sleepy grin. She shook her head, fighting back a smile, and turned to bustle around the room, dimming the lights and lowering the head of the bed.

“I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

Obi-Wan hummed in assent, feeling his eyes drift shut before Bant had even closed the door.

 

\--

 

_He was trudging through slime so thick he could barely lift his legs. Luckily, the slime was moving slowly with him, pulling his body along at a maddening crawl. The river of goo was heading toward a cliff edge, where he knew it glopped down twenty meters of rock and gathered at the bottom in a pathetic imitation of a waterfall. Just past the slime pool at the bottom of the cliff was their ship, where he needed to be as soon as possible. Wind whipped around him, swaying his body with its force. The roiling clouds overhead threatened rain, rain that Obi-Wan knew was toxic to humanoids. Fortunately, in his FAC (Foreign Atmospheric Conditions) suit, he was afforded an airtight, waterproof haven from the dangerous substances all around him. It was bulky, and heavy, and it made him feel like a youngling learning the katas again, but it was necessary for him to survive, so he was dealing with it._

_Just as Obi-Wan neared the edge of the cliff, the sky burst open, and brown liquid began pouring down in giant droplets. Obi-Wan peered through the semi-darkness to see the ship at the bottom light up. Qui-Gon was there, readying for departure. They were running out of time, and Obi-Wan still needed to rappel down the side of the cliff and trudge through even more slime to get to the ship, an endeavor that would be far less daunting if he wasn’t wearing the Force-forsaken FAC suit. The thin liquid from the sky was beginning to mix with the slime around his feet, thinning it out and causing the rate of flow to increase. He hurriedly readied the length of rope clipped to his belt, looking for something--anything--solid enough to support his weight on the way down the cliff._

_“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon’s voice crackled over the commlink in his helmet. “You must hurry. We need to leave before this storm worsens or we will be stuck here for days.”_

_“I know, Master,” Obi-Wan panted, spying a sturdy-looking boulder that would suit his purposes. He began schlepping in that direction, tying a slipknot in his line. “I’m just about to descend.”_

_Once the rope was secured around the rock, and Obi-Wan was relatively certain that the whole thing could support his weight, he pulled the rope taut, tipped himself over the edge of the cliff, and began rappelling his way down the rock face. The wind and rain were increasing in intensity by the second. It was slow going, not only because of the wind but also because of the lack of dexterity that his FAC suit provided him. He was nearly there, only about ten meters from the bottom, when a violent gust of wind shoved him off his balance and he swung in a wide arc, slamming against the cliff face. A loud twang accompanied his impact, and before Obi-Wan could reach out for a handhold, he was falling. He flailed wildly, attempting to right himself using the Force, but his top-heavy FAC suit made gracefulness impossible. He landed, hard, on his left side, directly on a boulder sticking out of the pool at the bottom of the slime waterfall. Pain seared through him, and he would have screamed if he had had any air with which to do so; the impact had knocked the breath out of his chest._

_“Obi-Wan! Stay there, I’m coming for you!”_

_In the minutes that it took Qui-Gon to suit up again and come for him, Obi-Wan had regained his breath, but every gasp was excruciating. The storm was picking up around him as he spent all of his remaining energy on keeping himself from slipping off the boulder into the pool of slime. A sudden grunt from the commlink, followed by a sharp hiss of static, told him that Qui-Gon’s helmet had somehow been compromised. When Qui-Gon finally appeared, knee-deep in slime, his suit had a massive tear running from his right shoulder to his left armpit, and his helmet was cracked, letting the toxic liquid in to drip on Qui-Gon’s head._

**_Your suit!_ ** _Obi-Wan cried over their bond, resorting to non-verbal communication, since Qui-Gon’s comm was clearly broken and he was fairly certain he couldn’t gather the air to form words without screaming in pain anyhow._

**_It will be fine. Can you stand?_ **

**_I think so._ **

_With a strong pull from Qui-Gon, and what he was certain was a series of horrendous screams from himself (thank the Force that the commlink was broken), he was lifted off the boulder and cradled in Qui-Gon’s arms. Qui-Gon waded through the rapidly thinning slime and up the bank of the pond until they were on (relatively) solid ground. He set Obi-Wan gently on his feet, wrapped a strong arm under his right shoulder, and tugged him along toward the ship. Obi-Wan focused his attention on remaining upright--well, as upright as he could manage given the circumstances, which was really more of a strained hunch--and not tripping over his own feet._

_They arrived at the ship within minutes. Entering the makeshift decontamination chamber that had been added to this vessel in anticipation of this horrid mission, the pair slumped to the ground. Obi-Wan sat kneeling in his FAC suit, still trying to catch his breath with a minimal amount of anguished screaming, as a sanitizing mist began to cloud the room around them. When the mist cleared, Obi-Wan removed his helmet, and looked to Qui-Gon, who was sprawled on the floor, presumably in exhaustion. Through the haze of pain clouding his mind, Obi-Wan recognized that his master was not lying still--his entire body was spasming violently._

_“Master!” Obi-Wan shrieked, tossing his helmet aside and crawling in agony to his master’s seizing form. Obi-Wan pulled off the ruined helmet and cradled Qui-Gon’s head, watching in horror as an oozing rash developed rapidly on his face and neck._

_“The ship,” Qui-Gon rasped through blistering lips. His eyes, wide and clouded with something thick and yellow, spun wildly, as though blind. “Start the ship.”_

 

\--

 

Obi-Wan awoke violently, wrenching himself upright, shrieking in pain at the sudden movement, and falling off the bed onto the cold floor. The panicked beeping returned in earnest as he attempted to processed the dream he had had. No--not a dream, that was a memory. A memory of what had happened on their mission to investigate allegations of strip mining on a tiny, nameless moon near the Outer Rim. The allegations had been correct, obviously, as evidenced by the toxic atmosphere. But that meant…

“Qui-Gon!” Obi-Wan yelled, hoisting himself off the floor, ignoring as best he could the stab of barely-healed ribs rebreaking. He cradled his left arm tightly to his side and limped hastily to the door and out into the hall, unsure of where he was going but knowing he needed to get there immediately. His mind spun as wildly as his body, grasping for their training bond, and finding nothing but silence. He shoved past several healers and apprentices in the halls, all of whom tried to block his path, only to get Force-pushed out of the way in his fear and panic. As he neared the end of the hallway, he saw a familiar face.

 _“Where is he?”_ Obi-Wan all but screamed, grabbing a fistful of Bant’s tunic and giving her a firm shake. She looked up at him, fear and grief evident in her eyes, as she pointed to the last door on the left. He released her and limped, looking for all the world like a volatile monster, toward the door.

“Obi, wait! You can’t--”

But Obi-Wan was already hobbling through the door and into the dimly lit room. Several healers in full contamination outfits hovered over the stiff body on the table in the center of the room.

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t be in here!”

“Someone sedate him!”

Obi-Wan felt several strong sets of arms grip him, but the weight wasn’t enough to keep him from approaching the table. He hollered in pain as he dragged the bodies along with him, feeling for all the world like he was stuck in slime again on that Force-forsaken moon.  He reached out his right hand, falling to his knees as more people piled on, trying to keep him away from the man lying in front of him. The man who lay perfectly still, covered in something thick and wet from head to toe, being forced to breathe by the tubes sprouting from his throat. Just as Obi-Wan’s hand closed the distance and grasped his master’s (limp but still warm, thank the Force), he felt the sharp pinch of an injection in his neck, and everything went black.

 

\--

 

“Your one condition for being permitted visitation was to leave the restraints on him. What were you thinking? He could have ruined everything.”

“He seemed fine! Honestly, he didn’t try to get up, he didn’t seem agitated or anxious, just tired. I know how much he hates being restrained, so I--”

“So you put the entire operation, including several of our healers and your own friend's health, in jeopardy. You’re dismissed, Padawan Eerin. Consider yourself banned from this ward until further notice.”

 

\--

 

When Obi-Wan awoke again, the first thought in his mind was that he was getting awfully sick of being sedated. The second thought was of Qui-Gon.

_Welcome back, Padawan._

_Qui-Gon??_

_Well, I would prefer ‘Master,’ but under the circumstances…_

Obi-Wan vaulted upright, simultaneously wincing in pain and rejoicing at the lack of restraints. Within seconds he was out of the room again, sprinting his way down the (much less crowded) hallway. The dimmed lights and lack of healers told him it was night, although he had no grasp whatsoever on what day it was, or how long he had been out. His only concern was heading to the last room on the left, where he could feel his master waiting contentedly.

Upon entering the room, Obi-Wan found his master sitting upright in bed, legs crossed, eyes closed, a tiny smile on his face. Obi-Wan froze, the need to touch his master warring with the instinct not to mess with someone in meditation. He approached the bed slowly, as though approaching an injured animal, paused at the foot, and waited.

 _I’m impressed by your patience, Padawan._ Qui-Gon’s voice in head was tweaked with mirth, and as Obi-Wan studied the peaceful face, a sudden grin creased it.

“Master! That was a cruel trick!” Obi-Wan groaned, launching himself forward for a hug. Just as he was about to fall into his master’s arms, a firm Force push nudged him back a step. Obi-Wan observed the hand his master held out to keep them apart, and couldn’t keep the hurt from his face. Was he angry, for everything that had happened on their mission? Did he blame him? Obi-Wan reached out tentatively to his master's mind, afraid of what he might find. “What…?”

“I’m not allowed skin-to-skin contact yet,” Qui-Gon said gently, sending pulses of love and regret across their bond. Obi-Wan nodded slowly, understanding but also feeling his chest constrict at the loss of contact. He collapsed gracelessly into the chair next to the bed, and took a moment to look over his master: his skin was certainly reddened in places, but not nearly as nasty as Obi-Wan remembered. He shuddered minutely, recalling the sickening sight of his master’s face covered by angry, blistering skin. Now all that was left were light rashes and a few old scabs. Otherwise, his body seemed fine; there was no trace of the spasms that had seized him on the ship, or the deathly stillness that he had embodied when Obi-Wan found him in this room the first time. His master’s eyes, now opened, were once again clear sapphire, but unfocused still, staring blankly ahead.

“No, I cannot see,” Qui-Gon said softly, feeling Obi-Wan’s sudden spike of concern. “They tell me it will return in time, although whether it be a matter of days or weeks, no one can say. In the meantime, I shall learn plenty.”

Obi-Wan smiled bitterly, recognizing his master’s attempt to play off their near-death experience as a joke. He wasn’t quite ready to let it go that easily.

“And your skin?”

“Minor burns, nothing more. The healers are merely concerned that it may be contagious, hence the contact ban. You should be wearing a protective suit right now, but I suppose I ought to just be glad you aren’t curled around me like a snake.”

“I have more self-control than that,” Obi-Wan said, intending it as a joke but hearing it come out sad and serious. He looked down at his hands, clasped so tightly together that the knuckles turned white, and thanked the Force that his master couldn’t see the effort that very same self-control was taking.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Qui-Gon said, still in joking mode. “You haven’t needed restraints since that bout of Wookieepox when you were fifteen.”

“Hey, it’s hardly my fault that Wookieepox causes hallucinations.”

The pair fell silent, Qui-Gon looking contemplative and Obi-Wan feeling the slow burn of worry and anguish leaving his body. It hurt, but it paved the way for a lightness of heart that he hadn’t felt since they landed on that horrible moon.

“How long have I been asleep?” Obi-Wan asked suddenly, realizing that he had no idea and figuring Qui-Gon would know the answer.

“Hmm… You were in a healing trance the entirety of the trip back to Coruscant, so four days, then sedated the two days after that until your attempt to rescue me from the healer’s clutches. Since then, it’s been nearly three days. They decided to keep you sedated until my condition was stabilized, for your sake as much as mine.”

“Does that mean your condition was… unstable?” Obi-Wan asked, feeling his throat tighten fractionally.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon murmured, looking for all the world like he wanted to reach out touch his padawan. He settled for a gentle Force push, just enough that Obi-Wan could feel the simile of a hand caress his cheek. “Yes, but it’s over now. I am fine. The healers say the burns will be gone in a day or two, and as for my sight--”

“It’ll probably never come back, and it’ll be all my fault.”

“How is this in any way your fault?” Qui-Gon asked, incredulous. His eyebrows drew together in a frown over unfocused eyes. “Please, enlighten me, Padawan, because all I can see is how well you handled the situation.”

“I could’ve done something--”

“With six broken ribs?” Qui-Gon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Obi-Wan recognized the movement as Qui-Gon’s signature “my padawan has no self-esteem” gesture. He felt a pang of affection, commingled with the ache of nostalgia. How many arguments had they had wherein Obi-Wan could only see his own flaws and Qui-Gon could only see his progress? “How long will it take you to realize that your well-being is my responsibility, and not the other way around?”

“I don’t believe that to be true anymore, Master,” Obi-Wan said passionately, inching to the edge of his seat. “Perhaps that was true when we first met, when I was scared and nervous and needed you more than oxygen. Maybe you needed me a little bit too then, after everything you had been through. And yes, I certainly needed you when I was in the throes of adolescence, and had as little sense as a wild gundark and about as much grace.” Qui-Gon smiled softly and shook his head, reminiscing. “But now… Forgive me if I’m overstepping my bounds, but I feel as though you have begun to rely on me just as I have always relied on you. And I don’t take that responsibility lightly. I could never forgive myself if something happened to you that I could have prevented.”

“Fair enough, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said, raising his hands in defeat and leaning back against the pillows of his bed. He looked contemplative again, stroking his beard in that way that always preceded a lesson. “I can sense that there will be no dissuading you from this theory. However, I sincerely hope that your desire to support me does not cloud your judgment. Our partnership is based on the mutual understanding that your needs will always come before mine. The master dies of self upon taking a padawan, and no matter how skilled or mature that padawan becomes, that will never change. My first priority is your development, my second your happiness, my third your performance, and somewhere much farther down that line is my own well-being. Someday when you take a padawan yourself, you will understand.”

Obi-Wan sat still, parsing through Qui-Gon’s speech. For a moment, he lost himself in imagining what it would be like to have a padawan of his own. He felt a brief spark of warmth, flashes of a boy with golden hair and tan skin, blue eyes looking at him adoringly. He shook his head to clear it. Just a silly dream he'd had, nothing more.

“Speaking of which, how are you feeling?” Qui-Gon asked. “How are the bruises?”

Obi-Wan started, realizing he hadn’t even taken stock of his injuries since waking up again. He lifted his shirt, seeing that the angry purple of his torso was starting to fade into pale red and yellow around the edges. He pushed the image of it into his master's mind. Qui-Gon pursed his lips.

“It looks a lot better, actually,” Obi-Wan assured, feeling gently along his ribs. The bones were nearly finished stitching themselves back together. “It hardly hurts anymore, really. I barely notice it.”

“Either way,” Qui-Gon said, his low voice belying the fact that he didn't believe his padawan for a single second, “we're grounded until further notice. The Council--” (barely contained eye roll) “--believes that, although I can perform my duties just as well without my sight, it would be best if I took some time off, for my own edification. The official story is that they're short teachers for the Living Force classes, but I sense Yoda’s hand in this.”

“I agree with them. You haven't had any substantial time off in several cycles. A break will do you good.”

“You seem to forget that you also have not had a break.”

“Yes, but I am young and virile, Master. I bounce back much more quickly than someone of your age.”

 _“My age?”_ A quick Force push nudged Obi-Wan, enough to nearly knock him of his chair, but not enough to do any damage. Obi-Wan laughed, feeling his heart growing lighter by the minute. “Such insolence, Padawan. What kind of master would tolerate such behavior?”

“Only a very old one, I expect.”

That time Obi-Wan did get pushed off his chair, his fall to the floor invisibly cushioned. He lay there for a while, laughing until tears streamed down his face, listening to his master's chortle coming from the bed above him and feeling the happiest he’d been in weeks.

 

\--

 

The following days felt like a dream to Obi-Wan. After another night in the Healer’s Ward, Qui-Gon was given a clean bill of health, and the duo left instantaneously. Obi-Wan took to leading his master around the temple by the hand, despite Qui-Gon’s protests. They both knew that Qui-Gon could get around the place without his sight perfectly fine, but Obi-Wan wanted the reassurance of proximity, and Qui-Gon could never turn down his padawan’s desire for contact. Obi-Wan felt the stares that followed them as they paraded arm-in-arm through the halls, and wore the weight of them like a badge of honor. By now, he felt nothing but pride for his relationship with his master. It was a labor of love between the two of them; it had taken nearly a decade of hard work and commitment to get where they were in that moment, and he would be a fool if he let a few snickers and incredulous stares dissuade him now.

The time they didn’t spend teaching classes or sparring (Obi-Wan quickly realized that lacking his sight did nothing to reduce Qui-Gon’s skill with a saber, but he was determined to win at least one match, just to say he did it, and now was as good a time as any), they spent wandering the Temple, finding rooms neither of them knew about, sharing secrets and fond memories, and pulling pranks like schoolboys. It was like a honeymoon of sorts, and Obi-Wan, who usually was champing at the bit to get out of the Temple on another assignment, found himself genuinely saddened when Qui-Gon’s vision began to return and their vacation drew quickly to a close.

After nearly two weeks of pure bliss, Qui-Gon’s sight had fully returned, Obi-Wan’s injury was nothing more than a greenish-yellow splotch on his side, and they had been assigned a new mission. Obi-Wan packed his things with no little reluctance, knowing full well that the free time they had been given was an anomaly, a brief respite from real life, but hoping against hope it could continue. In the morning things would be back to normal; cramped quarters, bland rations, boring political negotiations… He went to bed that night, feeling bitter at fate for giving him just a taste of true happiness and then pulling it abruptly away. All he wanted was the rest of his life to be peaceful and relaxed, with Qui-Gon nearby, preferably within arm’s reach. Was that so much to ask?

The dream Obi-Wan had that night was the worst he’d ever had. Qui-Gon, gasping his last breaths with sightless, clouded eyes, speaking of another with his last words, instead of Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan watched in abject horror as his own hand reached out to light his master’s funeral pyre, and then he stood, unable to move, as he felt the flames consume his own heart along with Qui-Gon’s lifeless body. When he awoke, he could do nothing but curl in on himself and cry, sobs torn from his body with such force that they made him ache. What did it mean? Was it merely a dream, born of his own greed and insecurity, or was it a vision? Either way, it hurt, and Obi-Wan found himself lying awake the entire night, meditating through the pain and attempting to make himself presentable before the sun rose.

When he emerged from his room, ready to leave, he found Qui-Gon setting breakfast on the table. It was a little tradition of Qui-Gon’s to make their favorite foods before they left on a new assignment, since it was likely that they wouldn’t have anything good to eat for days. Today it was pancakes with cured meat and berries. Obi-Wan felt a lump form in his throat. Pancakes were an incredibly indulgent food, considered by the Jedi to be bordering on gluttony, so Qui-Gon usually only served them when Obi-Wan was inconsolable. He wasn’t quite inconsolable yet, but judging by the knowing look on Qui-Gon’s face, he was about to be.

“What was the dream about?” Qui-Gon asked, diving headfirst into the conversation. Obi-Wan looked at his master as he took a seat, feeling a little wounded at the brusqueness. Qui-Gon softened, reached across the table for Obi-Wan’s hand, and tried a different approach. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have much time. We are meant to be boarding the transport in less than an hour."

“You died,” Obi-Wan said, examining their fingers entwined together on the table. Qui-Gon’s swarthy hand looked giantesque wrapped around his pale one. It made him feel simultaneously childish and safe. His voice sounded foreign to him, too flat, too emotionless. “You died, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Qui-Gon sighed heavily, his eyes sad and what seemed like a touch disappointed. “We’ve had this discussion before, Obi-Wan. I will die someday. I guarantee it. You need to make peace with that now, or it will be that much harder when it happens.”

“It was so real,” Obi-Wan said, pulling his hand away to rest his face against his open palms. His voice came out mumbled between his fingers. “I’m not ready, Master. If it happened tomorrow, I couldn’t handle it. I don’t even know what I would do.”

“I wish I could help you through this,” Qui-Gon said, turning to his breakfast defeatedly. “I’ve said everything that I can think to say, but there are some things that words cannot fix. This is something you must learn alone.”

“Even though I know it’s inevitable, I still don’t want you to leave me,” Obi-Wan said, looking up with wet eyes. “I would do almost anything to prevent it.”

“Be careful, Obi-Wan, you are entering dangerous territory with those words.” Qui-Gon’s face creased sternly, sizing up Obi-Wan with a wary expression.

“I wish it wasn’t true. I wish I could just release my thoughts into the Force and pretend I don’t feel the way I do. But I can’t lie; I would sooner die than see you come to harm.”

“I feel the same about you. But there is a distinction between love and attachment. Don’t let your emotions cloud your mind this way. You know better than this.”

 _“Force,_ why can’t you just let me have this today?” Obi-Wan nearly yelled, slamming his fist on the table with such force that it caused the cutlery to rattle. “I’m sitting here, telling you how upset I am, how scared, and all you do is tell me that I’m failing. Whatever happened to encouragement and comfort?”

“Comforting you now would do you no favors,” Qui-Gon said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t turn your anger on me in an attempt to mask the problem. I am not the source of this conflict you feel.”

Obi-Wan sat silently for a few minutes, picking at his food and feeling like a sullen teenager. He was better than this, he knew it, but that dream had really unsettled him. The end of their medical leave combined with the dream (vision?) had sent him spinning, grasping for something solid to hold onto. He was feeling so volatile that he would’ve yelled at Master Yoda, had he been present instead of Qui-Gon. He felt his misdirected anguish begin to melt.

“I’m sorry, I just feel lost. I’m angry at myself for being so weak-minded, angry at the Force for giving me this vision, afraid of what will happen, afraid of what I’ll do without you. I have so much to learn... It’s disappointing, is all. I let my guard down these past two weeks, let myself daydream and grow complacent. I know I ought to be better than this.”

“In acknowledging your mistakes, you have already grown past them,” Qui-Gon said, the look in his dark blue eyes indecipherable. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers together and watching Obi-Wan for a moment. “I know you’re afraid. I understand that fear; I have felt it myself. But you cannot let it control you, even for a second. The moment you give into fear is the moment you begin a path to the Dark Side. And yes, you are better than that, Obi-Wan. Infinitely better. Your life is so much greater than the time that you share with me.”

“I’m sorry, Master. I’ll do better, I promise.” Obi-Wan looked intently at his master, feeling the honesty of his pledge with every fiber of his being. He studied his master’s face for a moment, trying to memorize every detail: those deep blue eyes surrounded by decades of laugh lines; the scratchy beard, now more grey than brown; the strong brow and big crooked nose that would look hideous on anyone else, but somehow just… worked on Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan soaked it all in, vowing never to forget this face, no matter how many years passed.

“I know you will, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said gently, his eyes softening into that look that he only used on Obi-Wan, a look that spoke of untold love and admiration. “You have never let me down. And no matter where, no matter when, no matter if I have been dead for a century, I will always be with you when you need me most.”

They hurriedly finished their breakfast and grabbed their bags, heading down to the docking bay. Obi-Wan was still upset and confused about his dream, but he felt infinitely better after their conversation. Qui-Gon always knew exactly what Obi-Wan needed, even before he knew it himself, even if he didn’t like it. (It also helped that Qui-Gon let him hold his hand on the way to their transport.) He would be okay without Qui-Gon someday, he knew, because of Qui-Gon himself, because of everything he had taught and sacrificed and shared. Obi-Wan could imagine his Force ghost showing up, decades after his inevitable death, just to stare Obi-Wan down with that stern look until he behaved himself. The thought made him smile.


	4. Can two anxious hearts beat as one?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly you're here,  
> Suddenly it starts  
> Can two anxious hearts  
> Beat as one?  
> Yesterday I was alone  
> Today you walk beside me,  
> Something still unclear,  
> Something not yet here  
> Has begun
> 
> \--Les Miserables, "Suddenly"

At twenty-five, Obi-Wan would never feel his master’s touch again.

Lost, distraught, empty, scared, lonely, angry, hurt. How many emotions can fit in one (former) padawan’s head? He sat cross-legged on the floor of his room in Theed Palace, where he had spent the last twenty hours in desperate meditation, and began counting them on his fingers. Petrified, furious, anguished, manic, tortured.

“Obi-Wan?” A young, curious voice broke his concentration. Obi-Wan turned to see Anakin peering around the the enormous wooden door that had kept him isolated as he grieved. Anakin was oblivious to the concept of privacy, however--Obi-Wan assumed must be a habit borne of a childhood in slavery--and therefore had taken to checking up on Obi-Wan every few hours. Sometimes he he left food and water (which Obi-Wan ignored), sometimes he tried to get Obi-Wan to talk (which Obi-Wan politely declined), sometimes he just sat on the floor opposite him and stared silently (which Obi-Wan hated). “What are you doing?”

“Nothing, Anakin.” Obi-Wan heaved a weary sigh and scrubbed his hand over his face. Another hour of meditation would make no difference, and he knew that there were people depending on him to emerge from his grief-stricken stupor soon (namely, the blonde boy whose future he held in his hands). He stood and groaned as stiff joints and muscles protested the movement. Nearly a day spent sitting on cold tile was doing his weary body no favors. “Nothing important, anyway.”

Anakin brightened, taking Obi-Wan's movement as a good sign. He entered the room slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal. (Obi-Wan thought that would have smiled at the display had he not felt very much like a wounded animal at that moment.) His eyes scanned Obi-Wan's face, although what he was searching for was unclear; whatever it was, he seemed to find it, as the look of concern left his face almost as quickly as it had appeared. “Master Windu says it’s time to go.”

“All right. I’ll be right there.”

Anakin didn’t budge.

“I  _ said _ I’ll be right there.”

“I can wait.”

Obi-Wan bit back a groan of exasperation. Less than a day had passed since Qui-Gon’s funeral, and already they were tearing him away, pushing him to move on, urging him to let go. He would not be rushed. Not after twelve years of partnership and affection--ah, who was he kidding? Twelve years of love. Twelve years of his entire existence revolving around a single person. And now that person was gone, and no matter how many people told him that Qui-Gon wasn’t truly gone and never would be, nothing would ever be the same.

Obi-Wan looked at the boy standing nearby. So small, to have such power emanating from him. He understood Qui-Gon’s urgency; the boy could be either a great ally or a fearsome enemy, a fate to be decided only by whoever would’ve been the first to find him on the dustball he had called home. Obi-Wan was baffled by this child, who expressed neither Light nor Dark--pure neutrality. He had never met someone so malleable. The boy was passionate, certainly, and kind, and generous, but he was also lonely, and afraid, and angry. Once he had established a rapport with a person, he trusted them implicitly, potentially to a fault. Unfortunately for Obi-Wan, Anakin had chosen him as his new source of stability.

“Why do you like me, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asked abruptly, genuinely curious. He had been nothing but a total ass to the kid; it had been a shock that Qui-Gon hadn’t seriously reprimanded him for it. Thinking back, he realized that his master must have known Obi-Wan's attitude was sprung from his continued insecurities rather than from any real malice. He felt a stab of guilt; Qui-Gon was still teaching him patience and selflessness, right up to the very end. The boy shifted from foot to foot, thinking seriously about the question.

“Because you’re smart, and good, and you won’t let anything bad happen to me,” Anakin said simply, his young face seeming much older somehow. “And Qui-Gon trusted you, more than anything. And I know we’re supposed to be friends.”

Obi-Wan held back a scoff at Anakin's statement, simultaneously trying to bury the stab of hurt that hearing his master’s name spoken aloud still brought him and be the encouraging mentor he knew he was supposed to be. “What makes you say that?”

“I just know,” Anakin shrugged. “We’re going to be friends for a long, long time. I don’t know when we’re supposed to start being friends, exactly, but soon, I think. And then for a really long time after that.” Anakin snickered. “You’re gonna grow a beard.”

“I will not!” Obi-Wan said, aghast. A beard? Hardly. Still, the boy’s confidence inspired trust. Clearly he had seen something that Obi-Wan had not, and who was he to argue with the Force, which caressed this boy with such devotion? He reached out and ruffled Anakin’s hair. “Fair enough. You need a haircut.”

Anakin looked wary, clearly less than eager to part with his sandy (in more ways than one) locks. “But Master Windu said--”

“Master Windu can wait,” Obi-Wan said. _ If he knows what's good for him. _ He went to the ensuite fresher in his (frankly, far too lavish) quarters. The Naboo spared no luxury, that much was clear; golden plumbing and embroidered towels were hardly fit for a Jedi, even one who had killed a Sith lord. The only bonus of the opulent nature of the palace was that he could find just about anything he would ever need (and several things he wouldn’t ever need) within his own quarters. Surely, the fresher would contain something sharp enough to cut hair with. He dug through a few drawers and emerged victorious with a set of top-of-the-line hair clippers. Anakin trudged to a stop next to him and eyed the clippers with barely-contained malice.

“Do I have to?” He nearly whined, sticking his lower lip out in an impressive pout. Obi-Wan was surprised when he heard his own laugh, and equally surprised when the sound died abruptly in his throat. He hadn’t laughed since--

“Yes, all Jedi padawans have the same hairstyle, to show their progress.” He knelt next to Anakin, pushing aside the thought that he couldn't afford to complete. Obi-Wan grabbed a lock of hair just below Anakin’s right ear and tied it off. He turned the clippers on, grinning at the over-dramatic look of concern in the boy’s eyes. “Hold still.”

After a few short minutes of shearing the boy’s hair close to his head and a quick dunking in the sink to clean the hair that was left, Obi-Wan knelt down and braided the remaining long strands into a tiny (and, if he was being honest with himself, downright adorable) padawan braid. He sat back on his heels to admire his handiwork. Anakin pushed himself up on the fresher’s sturdy counter to look at himself in the mirror, then hopped down and fingered the short braid, looking far too serious for his age.

“Am I a padawan now?”

“Technically, yes, I suppose you are.”

“I’m your padawan, right?” Anakin looked at him, bright blue eyes solemn and intense.

Obi-Wan paused, baffled that he hadn’t fully considered the implications of his promise to Qui-Gon. He had only shorn his own padawan braid the day before, rising to the rank of knight without enduring the Trials, simply because he had slain a Sith lord. And today… Today he was taking a padawan of his own. He had no idea where even to begin. A knight as new and young as he was had not taken a padawan in several centuries. Then again, a Jedi knight had not defeated a Sith in several centuries, either. He felt lost. More than almost anything, he wanted to ask his master for advice. More than that, he wanted his master to be alive and teaching Anakin, instead of himself.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said, willing the sudden thickness in his voice to dissipate. “You are my padawan. You should call me ‘Master’ now, instead of Obi-Wan.”

“Okay, Master,” Anakin said, deliberately not remarking on the way Obi-Wan’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “We need to go, the parade is starting soon.”

Obi-Wan groaned and rubbed his face with his hands, rising to his feet. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“You said Master Windu could wait, if he knew what was good for him.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Obi-Wan mused, trying to remember if he had spoken the second part aloud or merely thought it. He eyed Anakin warily; surely the child could not pick up on his internal commentary, and yet… He would have to be more careful. “Don’t repeat that. Here, I’ll help you change; we need to hurry.”

The pair rushed through last-minute preparations and sprinted off, arriving just barely in time for the parade to start. Obi-Wan bit back a smile at the way Mace Windu’s eyebrows rose in judgment at their breathless arrival.

After the parade to end all parades, Obi-Wan was exhausted and, quite frankly, fed up with all the political bullshit. The only thing keeping a demure smile plastered on his face was the knowledge that they were scheduled to return to Coruscant immediately following the festivities. After the last Naboo official thanked him for his service, he caught Mace Windu’s eye, forming his face into a question. Mace nodded serenely, and Obi-Wan almost wept with joy. He turned to find Anakin next to him, staring at the queen in a manner that could only be described as smitten.

“Anakin, it’s time to go.”

The boy snapped out of his daze and followed as Obi-Wan turned in the direction of the hangar bay.

“Have you heard anything about our transportation accommodations?” Obi-Wan asked as they walked, feeling foolish for having to rely on a child for information that he ought to know.

“Padmé is letting us take her ship back to Coruscant. You know, the Nubian that you guys almost wrecked on the way to Tattooine?”

“You know, we weren’t actually ‘on the way’ to Tattooine.”

“Yes, you were. You just didn’t know it yet.”

Obi-Wan suppressed a sigh. He may not share Anakin’s certainty of their future, but he was certain of one thing: this kid was going to try his patience.

\--

It was getting late in the simulated night cycle of the ship, and Obi-Wan was beyond done with being awake. He was seated in the luxury vessel’s galley, where he had been nursing a cup of tea and trying to wrap his brain around the events of the last three days. He still had yet to fully come to terms with his master’s death, or his own actions following it (he had taken a padawan, for Force’s sake) and more than anything he felt... numb. Suddenly, he noticed that said padawan was nowhere to be found. What seemed like just a moment ago, the boy had been devouring a sandwich across the table from him. Now his seat was empty, and the only evidence that the boy had ever been there was an empty plate covered in crumbs.

_ Anakin? Where are you? _

_ Whoa! That was so cool! Do that again! _

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose.  _ Don’t make me ask again. _

Obi-Wan suddenly saw the ship’s bridge, where Anakin had somehow wormed his way into the co-pilot’s seat, and was pestering the captain with a thousand questions about the vessel.

_ Come to our quarters. It’s time for bed. _

_ Fine... _

Obi-Wan pinged his dissatisfaction at the boy.

_ Yes, Master. Coming, Master. _

_ Better. _

When he arrived at the average-sized room that had been assigned to them, Obi-Wan found Anakin there, already dressed for bed, sitting cross-legged on his bunk. He was hardly ready for sleep, however, as he was practically vibrating with excitement.

“How did you do that?” Anakin asked, knees bouncing up and down on either side of clasped hands, making him look like a large blonde insect about the take flight. “How did I do that??”

“We have a training bond, Anakin, like I had with Qui--with Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan sighed, undressing and contemplating how very little he wanted to be having this conversation at this moment. He yanked the silken sleep tunic he had been given at the palace over his head and tried very hard not to think about how that same bond was now gone, evaporated like it had never existed. Its absence felt like the hole left after a tooth extraction; sore and empty and a little bloody. Obi-Wan found himself absent-mindedly probing the suddenly vacated space in his mind every few minutes. He turned to face the boy, who looked about ready to bounce off the walls. “We can communicate through that bond, which you seemed to have figured out already.”

“Yeah, but how far can it reach? What else can you send me? Can I hear what you’re hearing? Can you send me tastes? Or smells? Is it on all the time? What about when you’re asleep, can I see your dreams?”

“That is far too many questions for this time of night.” Obi-Wan crawled into his own bed and lay back with his hands behind his head, letting his eyes drift shut.

“Aww, c’mon Obi--Master! You can’t just do that and not tell me anything!” The boy leapt off his bed and into Obi-Wan’s in one smooth jump, somehow managing not to crush Obi-Wan in the process. He straddled the man’s torso with his thighs and leaned over, placing tiny hands on broad chest. “What else can you do?”

“You really want to know what I can do?” Obi-Wan asked, cracking one eye open and trying very hard not to think about the ethics of what he was about to do. Anakin nodded enthusiastically. Obi-Wan reached forward with one finger and gently tapped Anakin’s forehead. Instantly, boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids fluttered shut. Just as he started to tip over and off of Obi-Wan’s body, a tiny whisper escaped his lips.

_ “Wizard.” _

Obi-Wan caught the boy and laid him down on the mattress next to him. For a moment, he contemplated picking the boy up and putting him back in his own bed. As he went back in forth in his mind-- _ I’ll have more room if he’s over there, but then he might get cold _ \--Anakin’s arms slithered their way around Obi-Wan’s torso and gripped him tightly.

Obi-Wan smiled at the boy, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. Bright flashes of the numerous times he had shared a bed with his own master passed through his mind. He pushed the memories quickly aside, feeling too tired and raw to sift through them just yet, and turned his focus on the tiny, warm body that clung to his side. Anakin was downright cherubic in sleep; his body was small for his age, most likely due to malnourishment, which made him look younger and more innocent than he was. A golden halo of short, spiky hair and thick, dark lashes spread fan-like over cheeks peppered with freckles added to the angelic look. He almost hated to admit it, but the child was quickly growing on him. He had always been uncomfortable around children; something about their perpetual energy and lack of personal boundaries unsettled him. But Anakin was different, in more ways than one. The boy was a force to be reckoned with, and Obi-Wan had a feeling the kid could get away with just about anything if he put his mind to it. Obi-Wan found himself saying a silent prayer that he would have the patience and stamina to keep up. He thought of Qui-Gon again, about how patient he had always been, how kind and noble, and surprised himself by feeling content, instead of pained. With his master's example to follow, perhaps this whole padawan thing wouldn't be so hard after all. He sent a burst of hopefulness and peace out into the Force, not knowing if Qui-Gon could feel it but feeling better for doing it all the same.

_ Don’t worry about us, Master... I think we’ll be just fine. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, if you've never heard it before, go listen to that song I quoted at the beginning. It perfectly encapsulates the feeling I was going for with this chapter.


	5. Animals like me don't talk anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's said if you don't let it out  
> You're gonna let it eat you away  
> I'd rather be a cannibal, baby  
> Animals like me don't talk anyway
> 
> Put another X on the calendar  
> Summer's on its deathbed  
> There is simply nothing worse  
> Than knowing how it ends  
> \--Panic! at the Disco, "The Calendar"

At twenty-nine, Obi-Wan felt sixty-five.

“Anakin, for the love of all that is holy, get out of bed. I won’t ask again.”

“You didn’t ask the last three times either. ‘Get out of bed’ is not a question, Master.”

“If you’re awake enough to talk back, you’re awake enough to get dressed and go to class.”

“I’m sleep talking.”

“Anakin,  _ now! _ ”

“Fine, don’t get your tunics in a twist…”

Obi-Wan retreated, utilizing all his considerable self-control to keep himself from slamming the door behind him on the way out of the boy’s room. Anakin was the king of pushing Obi-Wan's buttons.  _ Qui-Gon, give me strength... _

As he returned to his breakfast and (now cold) cup of tea, Obi-Wan reminisced. The first year of Anakin’s apprenticeship had been difficult, truly; so difficult that he had recalled thinking that he’d never experienced anything as trying to his sanity as the care and keeping of a precocious ten-year-old boy. Then the boy had turned eleven, and Obi-Wan had reassessed his statement. Then twelve… and he had contemplated dying his hair grey to reflect the premature aging of his soul. Now, as the boy approached fourteen, Obi-Wan wondered if it would ever get any easier. So far each year had only been worse than the last.

The boy was certainly gifted, and excelled in almost every area of study, too, but that was not Obi-Wan’s concern. Anakin had a mouth the size of a small moon, and an attitude to go with it. It certainly didn’t help that nearly every occupant of the Temple sang his praises--little did they know how much he misbehaved behind closed doors. The boy was of a singular mind; “I can do it on my own,” was his mantra. Such an outlook hardly required a master’s input. Clearly, Anakin had no respect whatsoever for his master’s guidance, and yet here Obi-Wan was, trying to maintain the illusion that he was in charge. It evoked an image of a pet on a leash, pulling its owner along at breakneck speeds. Obi-Wan held the leash, certainly, but Anakin was in control.

The whole situation was beyond baffling to the Jedi knight, because at fourteen, he had been sobbing into his master’s tunics over the thought of being denied a hug. At almost the same age, Anakin dramatically recoiled from Obi-Wan’s attempts at affection. Obi-Wan could not remember being so deliberately disrespectful in his entire twelve years as a padawan. From the very beginning, Qui-Gon had demanded nothing less than complete obedience and respect, not with words but with demeanor. That same obedience was rewarded, however, with returned respect and quiet praise. Obi-Wan never had to wonder what his punishment might be for serious misbehavior, because he loved his master so much that he couldn’t fathom misbehaving. Anakin, however… Anakin dealt almost exclusively in misbehavior. It was a shock when he obeyed a command on the first try without a sarcastic comment.

Obi-Wan had sought the guidance of the oldest masters of the Temple, those who had had a lifetime’s worth of padawans, for methods of keeping his student in line. Everyone seemed to have a lot of opinions about the situation, very few of which were actually helpful. Most seemed bemused at his inquiries, giving him cryptic answers like “He will respect you when you are ready to be respected.” Others voiced opinions that he was too young to take a padawan, and that was the source of his troubles. A few even refused to discuss the topic with him, claiming he had brought it on himself by training the boy despite Anakin's advanced age and inexperience. Needless to say, Obi-Wan left nearly every discussion less on the verge of a breakthrough and more on the verge of pulling out his own hair.

He longed for the days when Anakin had been insatiable and energetic, just a child full of wonder and curiosity. At least then, the boy had come to Obi-Wan with his questions and concerns. At the time, Obi-Wan had grown weary of his constant shadow, unaware of what a blessing a bright, eager student was. Now, Obi-Wan was lucky if Anakin asked him the time of day. The boy was constantly moving, and cared very little for whether his master was moving with him or against him.

Obi-Wan knew Anakin’s heart, knew that the boy did truly love him, and cared about his opinions more than he let on. Sometimes at night, when Anakin slowed down, he talked quietly in the dark of Obi-Wan’s room, where he often slept, either on the floor or, occasionally, with Obi-Wan in his bed (he had nightmares nearly every night, and something about Obi-Wan’s presence kept them at bay; he usually returned to his own room part way through the night), whispering about fears and triumphs and dreams, and Obi-Wan felt his heart swell with pride at the thoughtful, intelligent, kindhearted boy that he was teaching. But with the sun rose the carefully erected facade of arrogance and indifference, and Obi-Wan’s heart would shrivel in disappointment. He felt selfish for wishing the boy would thank him, or acknowledge his skill and seniority, or even just act like he  _ liked _ him once in awhile. Three years of little-to-no appreciation for his efforts and he was beginning to realize what Qui-Gon had meant when he said that the master must “die of self.” His sense of self had died a while ago, and there was little hope of resurrecting it.

“What’s for breakfast?” Anakin asked, snapping Obi-Wan out of his reverie as he entered the kitchenette of their quarters and snatched a piece of fruit off of Obi-Wan’s plate. He slouched into the seat across from Obi-Wan and looked expectant. Even fresh out of bed, Anakin was a sight to behold, hair ruffled just so, wearing only an undershirt and leggings and a shit-eating grin. His body was just beginning to stretch out-of-proportion in that way that boys grow before puberty, but Anakin still handled it with the grace and confidence of a jungle cat. With a few more years and a decent growth spurt, the boy would be stunning. Obi-Wan experienced a flash of panic at the thought; how much worse would Anakin get with half the Temple drooling over him?

“Where’s your tunic?” Obi-Wan asked, raising an elbow over his plate to keep Anakin from stealing more food. The boy sighed dramatically and went to fill his own plate with food from the pantry, plopping down once again with such a pile of fruits and breads and cheeses that Obi-Wan felt sick just looking at it. “You can’t go to class half-naked.”

“What if I went to class totally naked?” Anakin asked, grinning widely around a mouth full of food. “Can you imagine the look on Master Windu’s face? I might just try that.”   


“You will do no such thing. Come now, what have you done to your tunic? If you tell me now, I might be able to fix it before you need to leave.”

“I accidentally burned it sparring last night. There’s no saving it. I tried.”

Obi-Wan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He recalled how he used to cause his own master to perform the same frustrated gesture, but for very different reasons. “Anakin, that’s the third one this month.”

“So? I’ll just get a new one.”

“Jedi don’t waste. Respect for your possessions shows responsibility.”

“That’s rich, Master. Everyone knows I’m irresponsible already, what does it matter?” Anakin looked up, chewing steadily with mouth open, completely unperturbed by his reputation. Eyes as blue as still pools of water met Obi-Wan’s with a challenge. His posture and expression seemed to scream,  _ So what? _

“It matters, because your behavior sets a bad example for other padawans. Jedi live humbly, without excess or extravagance, and getting three new tunics every month is hardly provident. What will the younger students think, when they see you sporting a new tunic every other week? They’ll think, ‘if he can do it, so can I,’ and then every master in the Temple will be coming to me to pay for their padawan’s new tunics. Your behavior reflects poorly on me, Anakin. I’m in deep enough trouble as it is, for that stunt you pulled with the bannister in the training salle.”

Anakin had the decency to look abashed at that. “That wasn’t my fault, really. It was a group effort, but everyone scattered and left me to take the blame. You should be proud of me, for having the integrity not to rat them all out.”

“I’d be prouder if you wouldn’t get yourself into such situations to begin with.” Obi-Wan stood, having finished his breakfast, and turned to wash his plate. He was silent for a moment, trying to devise a new plan for the tunic dilemma. Clearly, just replacing the tunics was having no effect. He’d have to be a little more inventive…

“You can wear one of my tunics for today, but I expect it returned to me in pristine condition, understood?” Anakin grumbled his assent. He hated wearing Obi-Wan’s clothes; even though Obi-Wan’s stature wasn’t particularly impressive, the tunics still dwarfed the growing boy. Plus, there was something distinctly uncool about borrowing clothes from your master. “When you get back from your lessons this afternoon, you will repair your damaged tunics. I can’t justify the expense of another brand new one.”

“But I told you that--”

“I don’t care if it’s unsalvageable. Salvage it, or walk around naked. Those are your options.”

“Yes, Master.”

Obi-Wan felt a prick of surprise at the response. Anakin was very rarely so agreeable, especially when his precious image was in jeopardy. Obi-Wan turned, wet plate still in his hands, and looked at his padawan. The boy’s head was hung low, and he sullenly pushed what food was left around on his plate. He felt Obi-Wan’s stare and looked up suddenly.

“What?” The look of remorse was replaced almost instantaneously with a look of suspicion.

“Nothing,” Obi-Wan sighed, turning back to dry his plate.  _ I just thought you might be genuinely sorry for once in your life… _

Anakin cleared his throat, and mumbled something unintelligible. Obi-Wan chose not to respond, instead busying himself with putting away his clean dish and tidying the kitchen. Anakin cleared his throat again.

“Yes, Anakin?”

“I said I’m sorry, for the bannister thing. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

After a beat of stunned silence, Obi-Wan was at the boy’s side, hauling him out of his chair in a crushing embrace. Anakin yelped, scrambling for purchase and finding none. Obi-Wan buried his face in the boy’s disheveled hair and heaved a contented sigh, and the boy went limp, bringing his arms to wrap gently around his master’s waist.

“I forgive you,” Obi-Wan murmured, squeezing him extra tight. “Thank you for apologizing.”

“You’re welcome. Now, uh… can I go to class?”

Obi-Wan laughed and released the boy. “Anakin Skywalker actually  _ wants _ to go to class? Surely, ‘tis a sign of the apocalypse!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anakin muttered, ducking his head to hide his blush.

 

\--

 

Obi-Wan’s morning was fairly busy; he had two classes with the initiates to teach, a veritable mountain of paperwork that he had put off completing after their last mission, and the whole burned tunic situation to remedy. Anakin’s apology had softened him considerably, and he thought he would surprise the boy with a repaired tunic; he did still have the last three tunics in his closet, surely he could cobble something together from the ruined scraps. Just as he was settling in to work on the clothing, the comm screen beeped.

“Kenobi,” Obi-Wan said, still thinking about tunics and not at all expecting what he saw on the screen in front of him.

Master Adi Gallia’s image appeared, looking incensed. Obi-Wan could see that the signal was coming from the dining hall.

“Come. Retrieve. Your. Padawan.”

Obi-Wan’s stomach dropped. At that time, Anakin was supposed to be having a short lunch break in between classes. Midday was not usually a problem time for Anakin; the boy valued food too much to let any mischief jeopardize his consumption of it. What could he possibly have done to upset the Jedi Master’s calm so deeply?

“On my way.”

Obi-Wan made a mad dash for the dining hall, feeling his unease grow with every step. As he approached, he could hear voices raised above some kind of ruckus. He braced himself, fearing the worst, and opened the door.

The dining hall was an utter mess. There were initiates and padawans everywhere (this time of day was reserved for the youngest residents of the Temple to eat, so that the adults could dine in peace later) and nearly all of them were sullenly cleaning up the aftereffects of what could only have been a food fight. A handful of Jedi knights and masters had apparently attempted to gain control of the situation, only to get hit by edible crossfire. Adi Gallia was just covered in something wet and brown, her face flushed in agitation. Next to her, slumped defeatedly on the ground and nursing a bloody nose, was Anakin. Obi-Wan approached the pair with a knot in his stomach, considering turning back when Adi laid eyes on him and seemed to grow even more enraged.

“Today your padawan has exhibited the worst behavior I have ever seen of a member of the Jedi Order,” she seethed, looking no less intimidating for the food discoloring her robes.

“What did he do now?” Obi-Wan asked, trying to appear authoritative and failing miserably. Who was he kidding? Everyone in the whole kriffing temple knew he had no control over Anakin.

“He incited the other children to do this--” she gesticulated wildly to the mess around her “--to the dining hall. He also beat a fellow student to the point of unconsciousness. The boy is being taken to the Healer’s Ward as we speak, Kenobi. They suspect a concussion, as well as several broken bones.”

“ _ Why _ , Anakin?” Obi-Wan asked, truly nonplussed. He felt sick to his stomach at the thought of his padawan gravely injuring another child. Anakin kept his head bowed and said nothing, causing Adi to snort in derision.

“What are you going to do about this, Obi-Wan?” she asked, crossing her arms expectantly.

“Get up,” Obi-Wan snapped at the boy, feeling his face grow hot at the admonishment in the older woman’s words. Anakin hauled himself tenderly to his feet--it looked like he had taken more blows than were apparent at first glance--and came to stand just behind Obi-Wan. “I can handle the discipline of my own padawan, Master Gallia, but thank you.”

“If I thought you could handle this, I wouldn’t be asking,  _ Knight Kenobi _ ,” Adi said, biting out the formality like it was a seed caught between her teeth. “If this behavior continues, you’ll be facing censure by the Council.”

“I am fully aware of the counsel’s opinions of my padawan, but again, thank you for the reminder,” Obi-Wan said, keeping his tone light to hide the rancor he felt at being tongue-lashed by a member of the Council. “If you’ll excuse us, we have much to discuss.”

Adi was slack-jawed, appearing too stunned by the idea of being rebuked by a lowly knight to form words, and Obi-Wan took the opportunity to grab Anakin by the shoulder and steer him out of the dining hall. They walked the entire way back to their quarters with Obi-Wan’s hand gripping Anakin’s shoulder so tightly that it could bruise. When they arrived, Obi-Wan all but shoved the boy onto the couch in the common area, and went to fetch a cold pack from the kitchenette.

“Do you want to tell me what happened, or would you rather I beat it out of you?” Obi-Wan demanded, tossing the pack to Anakin, whose nose was beginning to swell alarmingly. The boy caught it and pressed it to his face, still not making eye contact. “You seem to be incapable of expressing yourself in ways that don’t include violence, so maybe I should speak your language, hmm? Would that get your attention?”

“He insulted my mother,” Anakin said dully, his voice muffled by the pack held to his face. The boy’s countenance burned with barely-contained rage. “He deserved what he got.”

“He’s a  _ child _ , who did not deserve to be beaten into oblivion, regardless of what he said. Look at me,” Obi-Wan demanded, coming to stand in front of the boy. Anakin looked up at him with tearful eyes, although whether the tears were from the pain of his injury or the emotions that caused it, Obi-Wan could not discern. He suspected a combination of the two. “You are not judge, jury, and executioner. You do not have the final say in anyone’s life, regardless of who they might insult. You let your emotions get the best of you, yet again, and your lack of control caused someone to be seriously injured. Have you no concept of consequence? Have you ignored everything I’ve taught you for the past three years?”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Anakin scoffed, his expression a mixture of grief and something like disgust. “You never understand.”

“Why don’t you respect me, Anakin? What have I done to deserve a padawan so insolent?” Obi-Wan could feel his voice rising in volume and tried to push his frustration down. He had yet to truly yell at his padawan, and he was trying with all his might to keep it that way, but it was getting harder every second to remain serene in the face of the boy’s blatant disrespect. “Be honest with me: is there something I’m doing wrong? Is there some invisible line I’ve crossed with you that makes me unworthy of your respect?”

“No,” Anakin said sullenly, not meeting his master’s gaze. Obi-Wan groaned in frustration and began pacing.

“Then what? What is it that makes it so difficult for you to listen to me? And behave? Ever?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t care?”

“I care!”

“Well, it certainly doesn’t come across that way.”

Anakin was silent, keeping his head down and his eyes glued firmly to the floor.

“I don’t know what to do with you anymore, Anakin, truly I don’t,” Obi-Wan said, collapsing onto the couch defeatedly. He felt a pang of sympathy when he saw a tear drop from the boy’s face to land in the thick carpet. Anakin had had such a difficult time fitting in with the other padawans; between his delayed introduction to the Temple and his maverick attitude, he had earned the dislike of many his own age. Obi-Wan was certain that Anakin hadn’t deserved whatever the other kid had said about his mother; it was painfully easy to get Anakin riled up about that particular topic. No doubt, this bully had known what was he was doing when he provoked Anakin, but still--Anakin was the one who had lost control and resorted to violence. Obi-Wan steeled himself against the desire to comfort his padawan; sympathy or no, he was beyond his wit’s end. Tears wouldn’t get the kid out of trouble this time. “If it weren’t for the fact that I know no other master would take you, I would suggest to the Council that you be released from my care.”

“No, please! I’m sorry!” Anakin sniffled, finally looking up with reddened face and tearful eyes. Waves of anguish emanated from the small body, filling the room with an almost tangible fog of grief. The rage had all but evaporated, and now he looked as if he was being tortured. Obi-Wan found his resolve melting; he could hardly bear to be the one causing Anakin such pain.

“What else would you have me do?” Obi-Wan asked, leaning forward and scrubbing his hands over his face to hide the look of pity that was developing there. He looked at his padawan, who was watching him anxiously with red, watery eyes, ice pack currently forgotten on the ground beside him. “We can hardly go on like this, Anakin. What kind of master would I be if I just let you run wild, with no sense of discipline whatsoever? Not that I haven’t tried, mind you. I’ve tried. The bottom line is this: you’ll never learn from me if you don’t respect me. And if you’re not learning from me, then I cannot continue as your master.”

In an instant, the boy was on his knees in front of Obi-Wan, bowing his head down touch the floor at Obi-Wan’s feet. Sobs wracked his body.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan,” the boy wailed miserably, the words barely coherent through hiccuping sobs. “I won’t do it again, I promise! I’ll be better, I swear! Don’t send me away, don’t make me leave--”

“Get up, Anakin,” Obi-Wan interrupted, unable to bear the sight of his padawan prostrated before him. He pulled the boy off the floor and onto the seat next to him, where Anakin curled into a pathetic ball. Despite his growing form, he was still small for his age, and he fit just as well against Obi-Wan’s side at thirteen as he had at ten. Obi-Wan called the cold pack to him, and pressed it to Anakin’s blood-crusted nose, wrapping his free arm around the boy’s shaking shoulders. “I won’t send you away. I promise.”

As Anakin cried himself out, Obi-Wan marvelled at the emotional response the boy had had at the threat of being sent to another master. This sobbing, anguished mess of a boy would be unrecognizable to the Anakin who had cockily ruined another tunic just the day before. Obi-Wan felt oddly reassured; clearly Anakin felt something for him, or he wouldn’t have reacted so strongly. If only he could bottle that feeling, and use it the next time Anakin was being disrespectful…

“I’m sorry,” Anakin said quietly, his bout of uncontrollable tears winding down. He reached up to push the cold pack away and wipe his runny nose. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I just can’t help it sometimes.”

“You can help it, Anakin, you just choose not to,” Obi-Wan sighed, setting the cold pack aside. He raked his now-free hand through his hair in muted frustration. “I guess I just wasn’t cut out for this. None of this would have happened if Qui-Gon was here. I was foolish to think I was ready for a padawan three years ago, when I’m clearly not even ready for one now.”

“Don’t say that, Master,” Anakin said, twisting to look up at Obi-Wan with puffy red eyes. “You were meant to teach me, I know it. I don’t want anyone else.”

“That’s kind of you,” Obi-Wan said, giving the boy a gentle squeeze. “But the fact remains that someone else--kriff,  _ anyone _ else--would be better at teaching you than I am.”

“You’re not the problem,” Anakin muttered, looking down at his bloodstained knuckles. “I am. You’re a great teacher, I’m just an idiot who won’t listen or keep control of my emotions. It’s just so  _ hard _ sometimes. I don’t know how everyone does it. How do you not feel? How do you turn that off?”

“It’s not that we don’t feel at all, Anakin. I feel plenty of things, every hour of every day. The difference is that I don’t let it control me. I don’t let my emotions dictate my behavior; when I feel something strongly, I acknowledge it, appreciate it, and let it go.”

“Appreciate it?” Anakin asked, quietly incredulous. “How can you appreciate something like anger? Or envy?” His voice dropped lower. “Or fear?”

“Every emotion, even the negative ones, come from a positive source. You feel anger toward the boy who insulted your mother, because you love your mother, and know she doesn’t deserve to be insulted. Love is positive, not negative. Whenever you feel something that might cause you to behave inappropriately, stop and trace the emotion to its positive source, then forget the negative. Let it go.”

“That’s the part I’m bad at,” Anakin said ruefully. “I’ve never been very good at letting go.”

“That comes only with time and practice,” Obi-Wan said, recalling his own struggles with releasing the doubt and insecurity that had burdened his mind as a padawan. “It’s not easy, and you have to be willing to work at it. Every one of your peers has had years and years of practice; you’ve got some catching up to do. But you haven’t let that stop you in any other area. Don’t let your inexperience hold you back.”

Anakin sighed and curled in closer next to Obi-Wan’s side. Obi-Wan reached over and smoothed the wild sandy hair back from the boy’s face to get a better look at his injury. His nose was turning purple now, and although it wasn’t broken, it certainly wasn’t pretty. 

“You look terrible, Anakin.”

“You should see the other guy,” Anakin deadpanned. Obi-Wan shoved him away and stood up.

“ _ Not _ funny. Now come on, we’re going back to the dining hall.”

“What? Why?” Anakin asked, suddenly frantic at the thought of returning to the scene of his crime--and the scrutiny of Master Gallia.

“Because you’re going to apologize to Master Gallia, and then you’re going to clean the dining hall. By yourself.” Anakin opened his mouth to protest, but Obi-Wan silenced him with a glare. “By then, the boy you mutilated should be awake enough for visitors, so you’ll make an appearance there as well. And after all that, you still have your tunics to repair, and mine to clean. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the blood and food all over my tunic? Honestly, Anakin, I thought you promised to keep it clean.”  _ And to think I was going to fix your tunic for you… _

Anakin got a funny look on his face. “You were really going to do that for me?”

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan said, annoyed that Anakin could still hear his thoughts every now and then. Having “the Chosen One” as a padawan was no walk in the park. “But that ship has sailed. Come on, let’s get going. We don’t want to miss Master Gallia.”

“Are you sure? I think we  _ do  _ want to miss Master Gallia…”

“Anakin.”

“Yes, Master. Sorry, Master.”

_ This boy will be the death of me. _


	6. Put to bed this dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't close the door  
> Left a crack open  
> I couldn't ignore the faint possibility  
> Of having hope in this insanity  
> That we still could be  
> But we're stuck floating in between
> 
> Put me on the shelf, discipline myself  
> To let the sparks die out  
> Shattering anything  
> That has reflections of you
> 
> \--MisterWives, "Reflections"

At thirty-three, Obi-Wan wished he was dead.

“Obi-Waaaan!” A loud crash accompanied the holler that wrenched Obi-Wan out of his meditation. He hurried out of his room, where he had been anxiously awaiting Anakin’s return, to find the teenager in the common area, slumped on the ground next to an overturned bookshelf. Anakin was giggling to himself, sprawled with long limbs askew. Obi-Wan could smell the liquor on his breath from across the room.

“Kriff, Anakin, what happened?” Obi-Wan rushed over to right his padawan, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Anakin looked up at him with a beatific grin.

“It’s my _birthday!”_

“Yes, I’m aware,” Obi-Wan chuckled, hauling Anakin upright as the boy weaved unsteadily on his feet. The pair shuffled carefully to the kitchenette, where Obi-Wan deposited him delicately in a chair. He had known that the boy’s friends were going to take him out to celebrate his eighteenth birthday, but he hadn’t known that said celebration would involve imbibing copious amounts of alcohol. Most padawans celebrated a collective birthday at the first of the year, as they didn't know their actual date of birth; the information was not collected at the time a Force-sensitive child was brought to the Temple. So when Anakin had announced that his was coming up, the whole gaggle of teens had plotted an extravagant party. Of course, to Obi-Wan “Social life? What Social Life?” Kenobi, the birthday party concept was entirely foreign. He had assumed they would prance around Coruscant for a while, eat something gluttonous, cause substantial damage to some public property, then return home. He had assumed poorly; of course the kids would get Anakin drunk. Anakin was a hilarious drunk.

“Did you eat anything at least?” Obi-Wan asked, knowing full well that he was using his “mom voice” (as Anakin often teased) and not caring one bit. He went to the cabinet to fetch a glass, knowing that Anakin was more than likely dehydrated, and set a pot of water to boiling for himself. Anakin hadn't drunk himself silly in a while, but if Obi-Wan had learned anything, he had learned that it was going to be a long night for both of them.

“Nope! I wasn’t hungry,” Anakin proclaimed, leaning forward across the table until his chin rested on his folded arms, and looking up at Obi-Wan with a mischievous grin. “Just thirsty.  _Very_ thirsty.” Obi-Wan pushed the glass of water toward him, and he rolled his eyes dramatically. “Not that kind of thirsty.”

“What sort of trouble did you cause this evening?” Obi-Wan asked, turning his back on Anakin to remove the kettle from the heat. After he set the tea to steeping, he rustled through the pantry to find something for the lanky lush at his table to eat. Even if it was only going to come back up in a few hours, food always helped the teenager fall asleep (something which Obi-Wan hoped would happen soon, as he had been up waiting for Anakin’s return, and had not slept at all himself).

“Oh, you know. The usual. Dancing, drinks, fighting, drinks, gambling--”

“And drinks?” Obi-Wan asked, a wry smile turning up the corners of his mouth. Anakin giggled. Obi-Wan hoped his padawan was exaggerating about the fighting and gambling, but frankly, he wouldn’t put it past him. The kid had always had a taste for danger. “Who all went?”

“Who cares? I just wanna… I don’t wanna talk about my birthday anymore. It’s _too much,_ too much… thinking.”

Obi-Wan bit back a laugh. Anakin certainly had a flair for the dramatic. He finished cobbling together a sandwich for the teenager and picked up his cup of tea, turning to face his padawan.

“What would you like to talk about then?”

“Hmm… Why don’t you have any lovers, Master?”

Obi-Wan choked on the sip of tea he had in his mouth. After a period of coughing and gasping for air and generally being far more flustered than he would like, he righted himself and looked up to see Anakin watching attentively--well as attentively as he could, given his current state of inebriation.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve never heard you mention one, or seen you bring someone back to our rooms, so I just _assume_ you don’t have any,” Anakin leaned sloppily on his fist, nearly tipping off the chair but righting himself at just the last second. Obi-Wan placed the sandwich in front of him, which he ignored. “Well?”

“Just because you haven’t seen me with a lover doesn’t mean I don’t have one,” Obi-Wan said, trying to seem haughty and experienced and getting nowhere. He felt the prickle of heat on his neck that signified the start of a heavy blush. _Damn fair skin._

“You don’t, though, do you?” Anakin examined him through squinted eyes. Even drunk, he could pin Obi-Wan to the wall with just a look. Obi-Wan held his gaze, refusing to be cowed by a drunk teenager.

“No, I suppose I don’t.”

“You’ve had sex though, right?” Anakin picked up the sandwich, dropping several toppings out the sides before taking an enormous bite. Obi-Wan was silent, watching his padawan chew with his mouth open and wishing he could evaporate out of this conversation. Anakin took his silence for the answer that it was. “You’ve never had _sex??_ Kriff, Obi-Wan!”

“All right, it’s not that big of a deal,” Obi-Wan said, crossing his arms across his chest and willing his face to stop heating up. He supposed they had put off this conversation long enough, and at least with Anakin drunk, there was the slight chance that the teenager wouldn’t remember any of this come morning. Also, Anakin was projecting wildly, which made deciphering his expressions that much easier. “I just never felt the need, that’s all.”

“It is, though! It _is_ a big deal! No wonder you’re so tightly wound all the time!”

“I am not tightly wound!”

Anakin rolled his eyes violently. “Uhhhh _yeah you are._ ”

“Well, you would be too, if you had _you_ as a padawan,” Obi-Wan huffed, cleaning bits of sandwich filling off of the table.

Anakin was suddenly quiet, seeming to puzzle something together with the mental speed of a bantha. When the pieces clicked into place, he gazed up at Obi-Wan with a horror-stricken look.

“You aren’t having sex because of _me??”_

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

“I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan!” Anakin groaned, sandwich suddenly forgotten, genuine tears forming in his eyes. He was a sight: crumbs on his face, pupils blown out, weaving in place on his chair. Obi-Wan held back an exasperated sigh. _My pride and joy._ “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me!”

“All right, that’s quite enough of that,” Obi-Wan snapped, quickly shifting from embarrassed to annoyed. He approached Anakin, hauled the teenager over his shoulder, and took him to his room, where he all but dropped him onto the bed. Anakin groaned at the impact, before looking around with sloppily spinning eyes.

“This… this is _your_ bedroom, Obi-Wan,” he said slowly, as though coming to a planet-shattering revelation.

“Yes. I thought it would be best if you were nearby so I could make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit,” Obi-Wan said, heading into the fresher for supplies.

When Obi-Wan returned with a basin, several towels and wet washcloths, and another glass of water, Anakin had rolled onto his side and was looking up at Obi-Wan with quasi-serious eyes. Obi-Wan set the things on the bedside table, his stomach clenching in anticipation. If he knew Anakin at all, he knew that there was only one thought on the kid’s mind; Anakin’s Force signature screamed curiosity, tinged with a hint of arousal. “Obi-Wan, do you want to--”

Obi-Wan shot his hand out and covered Anakin’s mouth in the space of a second. He put all his considerable intimidation tactics into his expression as he bit out sternly, “No thank you. And please don’t _ever_ finish that sentence.”

Anakin’s eyes widened dramatically. They stayed like that for a moment, Obi-Wan wanting to take his hand away but fearing what else might come out of that cursed mouth, and Anakin breathing moistly into Obi-Wan’s palm. Just as Obi-Wan contemplated gagging the teen--he was already at his wit’s end, and they had a long night ahead of them--something wet and soft stroked his palm.

“ _Fuck,_ Anakin!” Obi-Wan yelled, yanking his hand away from Anakin’s mouth. The kid had _licked_ him. Now he was laughing hysterically, heaving big, liquor-scented breaths into the air. Obi-Wan was nonplussed. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Only most things, Master,” Anakin said, fighting through tears of laughter to regain his shaky composure. He rolled onto his back, limbs askew, and sighed heavily. Obi-Wan wiped his hand on his sleep tunic, contemplated jumping out the window to the sweet release of death, and set about removing Anakin’s boots and socks. He looked at Anakin’s pants--skintight leather that he liked to refer to as Anakin’s “upper class escort pants”--and took a deep breath. He undid the buttons and tapped Anakin’s hip, indicating that he should lift them, and Anakin obliged with a smirk.

“Change your mind so soon?”

_Cheeky bastard._

“I heard that.”

“Nosy bastard, then. Now come on, help me with this,” Obi-Wan muttered, and proceeded to tug the pants down and off, thanking every deity he had ever encountered that Anakin had deigned to wear undergarments that evening. Obi-Wan set the pants aside and went to the head of the bed to assist Anakin, who was currently fumbling around the buttons on his silken shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently pushed Anakin’s hands aside before unbuttoning the blouse with care. Anakin was watching him with a heady gaze and practically bleeding suggestive thoughts into the atmosphere of the little room. Obi-Wan tried his best to ignore it as he finished with the buttons and help Anakin shrug out of the shirt. As soon as the shirt was off, however, the broadcast from Anakin seemed to triple in intensity. As Obi-Wan went to hang up the garment, he felt Anakin’s stare like a heavy cloak on his shoulders, and his skin prickled at the sheer magnitude of the boy’s desire. Formed thoughts seemed to push at his mental barriers, until curiosity won out and he could ignore them no longer.

_Anakin could spend hours, days, months just watching his master. Everything he did was living poetry. They way he moved, so confident and graceful, always with purpose, so unlike the aimless fidgeting that occupied Anakin’s own gangly body. Even Obi-Wan being perfectly still was stunning. Sometimes, when he was having a rough day, Anakin would ask Obi-Wan to meditate with him, then just sit and watch Obi-Wan meditate. How could he resist? His master's calm face and deep breathing were far more relaxing than digging through his own mess of a mind, particularly when that mess was always nagging him for being so obsessed with someone fifteen years his senior. It didn't matter what Obi-Wan did, Anakin found it fascinating; even mundane things like folding his laundry or washing dishes were like perfectly choreographed performances. Anakin particularly liked to watch Obi-Wan study. He got this very intense look in his eyes and a wave of wrinkles across his forehead, and he bit his bottom lip just so… it was very distracting._

_And those eyes, Force help him, those eyes. The brightest blue, the sweetest emerald, the most heavenly grey. Any color, any day was enough to set him melting in his spot, particularly when framed by those little crinkles, then ones that only showed up when he was trying to be charming, or was genuinely pleased about something, or was looking at Anakin. Anakin liked to think that Obi-Wan was both trying to be charming and genuinely pleased when he looked at him with those crinkles. It didn't help that Obi-Wan was quite often genuinely pleased about things, however. Before Anakin even realized it, he was keeping track of crinkle occurrences--him versus the rest of the Temple. When they were winning on a given day, he'd do something extra special for his master, just to tip the tally in his favor. He knew he was only competing with himself; he'd seen enough of Obi-Wan’s thoughts to know he was loved unconditionally. It was just nice to have a quantifiable reminder of that love._

_His physical attributes were only the beginning; Obi-Wan was kind, generous, caring, intelligent, infinitely patient, bordering on perfect. Even his perceived flaws were delightful: his bone-dry sense of humor, his obsession with cleanliness and order, his seemingly impenetrable stoicism that perfectly masked an ocean of feelings._

_Anakin considered himself very fortunate that Obi-Wan's only true flaw seemed to be ignorance of his own perfection. Anakin could spend all day staring at his master, only to reply that he was thinking when Obi-Wan asked, and he just believed it. His master couldn't seem to fathom that no thoughts Anakin could conjure up were even remotely as interesting as anything about Obi-Wan Kenobi. Anakin tried once, he really did, to think of anything in the galaxy more interesting than Obi-Wan, and he couldn't--_

“Anakin…” Obi-Wan sighed, interrupting Anakin’s drunken stream of consciousness as he returned to sit on the edge of the bed. He was at a loss for words, flattered by the teenager’s devotion and interest, but thoroughly disinterested in the mechanism by which such interest would be expressed. He was just developing a compelling analogy (a la Qui-Gon Jinn) when Anakin’s hand covered his on the sheets.

“Don’t say no yet,” Anakin murmured, seeming suddenly far too sober for Obi-Wan’s comfort. “I’ve felt this way for a long time, and now that I know that you--you’ve never--well, I suspected, obviously, but I didn’t think that you really had _never_ \--” Anakin brought his other hand up to pound a fist against his forehead in frustration. “Focus, Anakin!” He rolled onto his side again to face Obi-Wan, not letting go of his hand. “What I mean to say is that I would be honored--ecstatic--grateful, to be your first.”

Obi-Wan was silent, feeling his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the raw emotion in his padawan’s eyes. Anakin was more than just his padawan, he was his best friend, and quite frankly, the closest thing he would ever have to a normal relationship. He almost chuckled to himself at that thought; who would ever use the word “normal” when describing the pair of them? He would move planets for this young man, and yet, here Anakin was, asking for the one thing Obi-Wan couldn’t give. He desperately wanted to be what Anakin thought he was: a paragon, a sex symbol, an idol, but he knew that pretending to be those things for Anakin’s sake would only hurt them both in the end. He felt heartbroken, knowing that what Anakin wanted would never--could never--come to be.

“If it’s because you’re my master, that doesn’t have to be a problem,” Anakin said quietly, with a gentle squeeze of his hand. Obi-Wan realized he had been silent for too long, giving Anakin time to develop false hope. “I know tons of padawans who have sex with their masters, and nobody cares.”

“That may be the right course of action for them, but it isn’t right for us,” Obi-Wan said, holding Anakin’s gaze but withdrawing his hand. The boy’s eyes turned beseeching, glimmering with unshed tears. Obi-Wan felt like his chest was in vise.

“Please, Obi-Wan! Please!”

“Anakin, you know I can’t,” Obi-Wan said, reaching out to brush a tear from the boy’s cheek almost as quickly as it fell. He really did look like a boy in that moment, eyes full of hope and longing, bordering on hurt when he registered Obi-Wan’s words.

“You can,” Anakin said, rolling onto his back again, away from his master’s touch. “You just don’t want to, not with me. I don’t meet your precious standards.”

“That’s not it and you know it,” Obi-Wan said, bringing his hand up to rest on Anakin’s shoulder. Anakin jerked away further, until he was lying face down on the other side of the bed, out of Obi-Wan’s reach. “I’m… different when it comes to that. I just don’t feel that way about people. I never have.”

Anakin mumbled sulkily into the pillow. The words were muffled but the intention was clear: _You’d feel that way about me if you loved me._

“Hey, look at me,” Obi-Wan said, sudden sternness coloring his voice. Anakin turned his head from the pillow; his expression was petulant. “I love you more than any drunken fucking can ever express. Just because I don’t think with my genitals doesn’t mean that I care for you any less. If you really think that sex is the epitome of love, then you have a lot to learn, my young padawan.”

Anakin stuck his lip out in a pout and turned his face back into the pillow. Obi-Wan sighed; apparently he wasn’t going to get off easy this time. He scooted up until he was sitting at the head of the bed and swung his bare feet up onto the mattress. He was tired, too damn tired to be having this conversation at--he checked the chrono and groaned--four o’clock in the morning. He leaned his head back until it rested against the wall and closed his eyes. _Well, now is as good a time as any..._

“Sometimes I wish I was capable of casual sex. I’ve contemplated just doing it with the next person to ogle my ass, just to get it over with and say I’ve done it.” Anakin raised his head slightly to slowly (and very pointedly) waggle his eyebrows in the direction of Obi-Wan’s backside. Obi-Wan punched him in the shoulder, ignoring the teen as he whimpered in mock pain. “But it just doesn’t work that way, unfortunately. I remember Qui being baffled with me; apparently Xanatos had been something of a libertine. When he realized I wasn’t going to be falling into bed with someone new every chance I got, he nearly wept tears of joy. It’s not as though I didn’t have the opportunity, though. Siri never told me the whole truth, but I’m fairly certain I had an honest-to-Force fan club when I was younger. Can you imagine?”

Obi-Wan’s train of thought was interrupted by a quiet snore from the other side of the bed. He looked down to find Anakin slack-jawed, unconscious, and drooling onto the pillow. Obi-Wan sighed heavily. Would every piece of fabric that he owned be soiled by the boy? Most likely. At least he was sleeping…

Almost two hours later, Obi-Wan was wrenched awake by the sounds of Anakin violently retching into the basin Obi-Wan had placed next to him on the bed. The rest of the early morning was spent in urgent trips to the fresher, interspersed with Obi-Wan force-feeding Anakin bits of bread and hydrating beverages. As time crawled on, Obi-Wan briefly contemplated cancelling his classes and meetings for the day. Surely, everyone could do without him for one day… And yet… He couldn’t shirk his responsibilities. Anakin could handle himself for a few hours. Obi-Wan bypassed the shower, tugged on yesterday’s tunic, and headed off with sandy eyes to teach Intermediate Meditation. He only hoped he wouldn’t fall asleep in front of the initiates…

 

\--

 

Just past midday, Obi-Wan returned to their quarters, having been banned from further work by Master Yoda. Upon seeing the bags under his eyes, Yoda had cancelled their meeting with a sour twist of his craggly green lips and an admonishment about taking better care of himself… or something. Obi-Wan had stopped listening a while ago. He had earned himself a sharp thwack to the shins for the trouble, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He was so tired he had barely felt the gimer stick make contact, but it would certainly leave a bruise.

As he entered their quarters, he made beeline for the couch, upon which he collapsed with a relieved sigh. He assumed Anakin was still in his bed, and frankly, he didn’t want to attempt to sleep amidst the smell of Anakin’s sweat and vomit any more than he wanted to get hit by Yoda’s stick again. Just as he was contemplating the ethics of getting his own stick, perhaps to keep Anakin from drinking ever again, he drifted off to sleep.

He was awoken what felt like only minutes later (although the slant of light coming through the great windows would tell a different story) by the feel of strong arms wrapped around his throat. He panicked, struggling against the grasp for a moment before realizing the it was just Anakin. He looked down at the tan arms wrapped around him, not strangling, but… _hugging?_ Obi-Wan was nonplussed. Anakin hadn’t hugged him in--well, months at least, if not years. He wondered if the teen was still intoxicated, surely that would be the only reason for--

“Would you just stop thinking for one minute and relax?” Anakin’s voice was quiet and a touch annoyed. Obi-Wan felt his hair stir with Anakin’s breath, and tried not to seem shocked. Anakin scoffed and withdrew. “I’m trying to be nice, for kriff’s sake, and you act like you’ve never had a hug before.”

Anakin came around the side of the couch to sit next to Obi-Wan. His hair was damp--just out of the fresher, apparently--and although he seemed as exhausted as Obi-Wan felt, he no longer looked to be perpetually on the verge of vomiting.

“Excuse me for being surprised,” Obi-Wan said dryly, taking a moment to rub the sleep out of his eyes. “You seem to avoid contact with me like the plague these days.”

Anakin looked down at his hands in his lap. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and a touch bitter. “Call it self-preservation, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, cringing slightly; he was really out of his depth. “I suppose I’m more clueless than I would have hoped.”

“Yes, but no less clueless than I expected,” Anakin said with a sardonic smirk. He scooted over on the couch until he was next to Obi-Wan, and leaned his head against his shoulder. Obi-Wan wrapped his arm around the teen’s shoulders and gave him a gentle squeeze.

“Is there something I can do?” Obi-Wan asked, grasping wildly for the masterly authority he knew he ought to have. “To… help you? With your, uh, problem?”

“When you say things like that, you set me up for making terrible sex jokes,” Anakin muttered. “Really not helping at all.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan felt his face flush and decided silence was best for the time being. They sat quietly together for quite a while, so long that Obi-Wan almost fell asleep again. Just as the sun slipped below the horizon and Obi-Wan felt his eyes begin to drift shut, Anakin cleared his throat and gently extracted himself from Obi-Wan’s arm. He stood up and stretched, bones quietly popping. Obi-Wan just watched and waited, knowing that Anakin needed to be the first to speak. His handling of the situation would determine how they proceeded.

“Okay, I’m over it,” Anakin said, looking at Obi-Wan with a sunny smile that belied the sadness Obi-Wan could feel from him. Obi-Wan waited for a moment before realizing that that was all he was going to say.

“So… that’s it? You’re over it, just like that?” Obi-Wan couldn't hide the surprise and hope in his voice.

“Yep.”

“I have to say, I’m relieved,” Obi-Wan laughed, leaning back against the couch. A weight he hadn’t known he was carrying lifted from his shoulders. “Should I be offended that you can get over me so quickly? I must not be that great after all.”

“Don’t make jokes,” Anakin said, his face briefly showing the anguish he felt; it was gone and replaced by a cocksure smile so quickly that Obi-Wan almost thought he imagined it. “That’s my job. And yes, you are inferior. What would my adoring public say if they heard I was slumming with you? I shall just have to set my sights once more on Senator Amidala. She is a person of a much higher caliber, far better suited to my tastes.”

Obi-Wan smiled weakly, trying to determine if he would just let it all go, like Anakin seemed to want. He opened his mouth to ask Anakin if he would truly be all right, but a sharp look from the teen silenced the words in his throat. Anakin's expression was torn between pleading and commanding: _Don’t._

“Now, if you would assist me, we have some cleaning up to do in your bedroom,” Anakin said, once again cheerful. He headed off in the direction of Obi-Wan’s room. “I made quite a mess in there. I would recommend you incinerate the bed sheets, but I know how sentimental you are…”

“Anakin, if you vomited on any of my belongings, you will be the thing that is incinerated,” Obi-Wan said, standing up and turning to look at his padawan. Anakin poked his head out of Obi-Wan’s room.

“Dear Master, my vomit is the least of your concerns,” he said with a shit-eating grin. Obi-Wan threw a pillow at his face, causing him to yelp in surprise. “Hey now, I’m still in a delicate condition.”

“Delicate, my ass,” Obi-Wan muttered, slumping onto the couch once again. He heard a snicker from behind him.

_Your ass is quite delicate._

_Shut up and clean._


	7. I've been living a lonely life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to do it right  
> I've been living a lonely life  
> I've been sleeping here instead  
> I've been sleeping in my bed,  
> Sleeping in my bed
> 
> So show me family  
> All the blood that I would bleed  
> I don't know where I belong  
> I don't know where I went wrong
> 
> \--"Ho Hey" by The Lumineers

At thirty-five, Obi-Wan felt lonely.

Following the events at Geonosis, the Jedi Order had been in upheaval. It seemed Jedi were being dispatched to aid in various skirmishes every few minutes, and he and his padawan were no different. Obi-Wan’s mind would normally be sharpened by the high tensions of battle and military command, but his focus was diluted by the high tensions rising in Anakin.

At first he attributed his padawan’s anxious behavior to the loss of his hand. Anakin had clearly been nuturing some feelings of inadequacy for the folly that caused him to lose it. He kept the mechanical replacement covered almost always; whenever he uncovered it for maintenance, Anakin looked at the new appendage with nothing short of loathing. Any attempts to discuss it were met with a stony glare. Additionally, Obi-Wan thought that perhaps the war was wearing him out. It had been nearly a month, but he supposed any person thrust into battle would be shaken up for a while. It seemed as though Anakin’s anxieties lessened in the heat of battle, however, and returned several fold once things had quieted.

Only after they had received word that their first tour would be extended another two cycles without leave did Obi-Wan discover the source of Anakin’s frustrations.

“Two more  _ cycles? _ ” Anakin had fumed to himself once he was safely out of earshot of the general who had given them the news, presumably alone in their shared tent for the time being. He collapsed onto his cot, his entire lanky body strung with tension. “I can’t wait that long!”

“What exactly is it that you cannot wait for?” Obi-Wan asked quietly from the doorway, where he had waited silently, hoping for some hint as to the boy’s unusual behavior. Anakin’s head snapped up, his expression slightly panicked and tinged with embarrassment.

“Sorry, Master, I didn’t know you were there.”

“That was the point, Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, attempting humor but knowing it fell short. He walked to his own cot, across from Anakin’s, and took a seat. “Would you care to explain why you are so anxious to return to Coruscant? You never seemed to miss it much before.”

“It’s nothing,” Anakin said, averting his eyes. He stood up abruptly and began to pace. “Just homesick, I guess.”

Obi-Wan watched the young man pace like a caged animal for several minutes without interruption. His padawan braid flipped violently over his shoulder with every sharp turn of his feet. In his eyes burned a passion that Obi-Wan didn’t understand, although he knew he had seen it before... When it became clear that Anakin was not planning on stopping without intervention, Obi-Wan followed his hunch and spoke up.

“Is this about Senator Amidala?”

The pacing stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Anakin’s back was to Obi-Wan, but he could still see the tension held in shoulders and neck, and could imagine the shuttered look on his face.

“No,” Anakin said, quietly, sternly.

“She is completely safe, I’m certain of it,” Obi-Wan said, attempting to provide some comfort while simultaneously feeling disappointed that his nearly-grown padawan was still dangerously attached. How should he walk this line? He knew that if he chastised Anakin, the young man would shut him out, and he might never fully understand Anakin’s feelings. But to do anything else would be encouraging his behavior… Behavior that was becoming less disappointing and more frightening with each passing day. Anakin’s power was growing rapidly, but it often seemed as though his control over it was disappearing at a similar rate.

“I said it’s not about Padmé --I mean the Senator. Just drop it. Please.”

“Anakin…”

“Please, Master,” Anakin said, turning at last to look at Obi-Wan. His posture softened at last to be that of a man defeated. All that tension melted away into exhaustion; his eyes seemed too bright, as though tears were imminent. Obi-Wan felt his stomach clench. The only thing that was worse that his padawan’s failure was his own failure to stop it. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You will see her again, Anakin, if the Force wills it.”

“I should hope so,” Anakin said with a strange look on his face. Was he smiling? The twist of his lips was sour, as though he had heard another of Obi-Wan’s “terrible” jokes. He noticed Obi-Wan’s confused stare, and the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He sat upon the cot once more and began tugging off his boots. “I’m going to sleep.”

Obi-Wan said nothing, and proceeded to ready himself for sleep as well. As he lay awake that night, listening to his padawan’s deep breathing, he felt a kernel of some foreign emotion twisting in his chest. He couldn’t place it, but somehow it got him thinking of Qui-Gon again, remembering feelings a decade past.

 

\--

 

At thirty-six, Obi-Wan felt appreciated.

Anakin and Ahsoka were back on Coruscant after another extended deployment, and their return miraculously coincided with Obi-Wan’s own leave of absence from the battlefield, courtesy of a particularly stubborn blaster wound. Upon learning of Obi-Wan’s presence in the Temple, Anakin had suggested they share the evening meal, “like old times.” Obi-Wan had readily agreed, and blamed the painkillers he was taking for the sudden ache he felt in his throat. Their team missions had become less and less frequent of late; Obi-Wan realized with a start that it had been nearly four cycles since they’d seen each other more than in passing. Practically a lifetime in the fast-paced landscape of interstellar war. He looked forward to reconnecting, that was all.

When Anakin arrived at Obi-Wan’s quarters that evening, he entered without knocking. Obi-Wan stubbornly refused to remove Anakin’s key code from the door’s access bank, citing practicality when prodded. What if he was killed in battle? Who would he trust to clean out his quarters but Anakin? The name on the nameplate, well… No one seemed hard-pressed to get him to remove it. He suspected they all expected the combination of “Kenobi and Skywalker” as much as he did. It wasn’t about nostalgia, he told himself. It was about the public image.

Anakin’s offer to spare them both the dining room cuisine and dine in their old shared quarters was met with nothing but enthusiasm from Obi-Wan. A little commotion in the apartment would banish some ghosts that seemed intent on following him back from the battlefront, and (although he would never admit it aloud) his bum leg made the traversal of long distances painstakingly slow. Easier for all if they just stayed in, they had agreed.

Obi-Wan missed his former roommate’s entrance, however, as he was too distracted hobbling around the kitchenette preparing food. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Anakin’s deep voice rang out from only a few meters away.

“What are you doing?”

The voice sounded displeased. Obi-Wan pivoted on his good leg to see his former padawan looming over him, a tiny frow creasing his forehead. Dressed in all black and towering over his former master, Anakin cut an imposing figure, particularly when wearing that expression. Sandy hair, longer than ever, fell messily into stormy blue eyes. Eyes that seemed significantly unhappy with something. And what was that, slashing down his forehead, over his right eye? A dark pink line, a barely-healed gash on its way to becoming a scar. Obi-Wan was saddened but hardly surprised. The war had left them all with scars, some of which were more visible than others.

“Really, Anakin, you ought to knock before entering, at the very least,” Obi-Wan chided, pivoting back to continue chopping vegetables. “As to what I’m doing, I should think it’s obvious.”

“Is it your leg? What happened?” Anakin asked, coming up behind him. He snaked a mechanical hand over Obi-Wan’s, using the superior strength of machinery to force the knife out of his grip. Provoked by a gentle elbow to his side, Obi-Wan limped to the nearest stool and took a seat, recognizing a lost cause when he saw it. Anakin resumed the preparation of the food.

“Nothing that could have been avoided,” Obi-Wan said, brushing off the question in an attempt to lighten the already dour mood. “How is Ahsoka? Are her skills improving?”

Such was enough to set Anakin off on a lengthy discussion of his padawan’s merits and faults, as Obi-Wan had anticipated. The discussion carried them all the way through the preparation of the meal and as well as through most of its consumption. Obi-Wan hardly noticed that they had talked of nothing but the young padawan until Anakin fell silent, seeming to have run out of words to say.

“I’m glad to hear things are well, more or less,” Obi-Wan said, leaning back in his seat and hoping the prod would sent their conversation onto a different topic.

“I suppose you could say that,” Anakin said tonelessly, appearing deep in thought. He was quiet for a few moments, before looking up at Obi-Wan with soft eyes. “I never realized… how much is involved in the training of a padawan learner. It’s almost akin to fatherhood, in some senses.”

“That is one way of looking at it,” Obi-Wan said, hoping his tone didn’t betray the nerves that suddenly clutched his chest. After all this time, Anakin was still clinging to the institutions of his childhood. After all this time, he still used the family unit as the basis for all his relationships. After all this time… he had not yet learned to let go. “You know that isn’t a perfect metaphor, of course--”

“Of course,” Anakin interrupted, waving a hand as if to banish the tension from the air. “It was merely an observation. One I hoped would lend me the means to express my gratitude.”

“Gratitude?” Obi-Wan asked, still on edge from the revelation of his former padawan’s attachments, still planning his strategy to broach the subject with Yoda the next day. It was a conversation to which he did not look forward, but a necessary one nonetheless. Interventions must be taken, and quickly. Which interventions, exactly, he hadn’t a clue.

“I feel as though I owe you a great debt, Master,” Anakin said, clearing his throat nervously. His gaze was intense as always, but unusually stricken with something Obi-Wan could only liken to affection. “I could never have fathomed the sacrifices you made for me, the effort it took to keep me as your padawan, until I took on a padawan of my own. I feel as though I was blind to your difficulties, as though I was willingly ignorant to your perspective.”

“That is the way of every padawan,” Obi-Wan said gently, warmed by the sudden confession enough that he pushed aside his plans of intervention. “You are not unique in being oblivious to your master’s struggles.”

“But I should have been better,” Anakin said, his mechanical fist clenching and unclenching where it rested on the table, an anxious habit Obi-Wan had watched him develop since he lost that arm. “I so rarely expressed gratitude, so frequently caused you trouble. You practically raised me, and I repaid you so poorly. For that, I apologize.”

“Does a parent begrudge his child those instances in which the child takes without gratitude or recognition?” Obi-Wan said, smiling wanly. “I never expected that of you. Not once.”

“Nonetheless.”

“Is that how you feel about Ahsoka? Do you wait with bated breath for her thanks every time you sacrifice for her benefit, to help her grow?”

“Of course not!”

“Then you understand my perspective. It is the same as yours, and the same as every master’s should be.”

“That’s not what I meant, Master,” Anakin muttered, looking down at the table. “I merely intended to express some long overdue gratitude.”

“I accept your gratitude, but as I say, it is unnecessary,” Obi-Wan said, watching his former padawan fidget across the table. He was still so young, despite his immense power. Years younger than Obi-Wan had been when he had taken Anakin into his care. He remembered those years, the bottomless gratitude that came with the maturity to realize a master’s sacrifice. The impatience to express it, the desire to seem in control while expressing uncontrollable sentimentality. “Anakin?”

Anakin raised his head, and leveled Obi-Wan with that intense gaze again. “Yes, Master?”

“You’re welcome.”

Anakin smiled, his dissatisfaction clearing in an instant. Obi-Wan felt transported through the years, through all the times that brilliant smile had been turned on him, and reflected that he never actually needed a verbal expression of gratitude to know he was appreciated. He returned the smile, and decided that perhaps his talk with Yoda could wait a while after all.

 

\--

 

Screams of anguish, bright clinical lights, the pungent smells of burnt cloth and blood--all of it made Obi-Wan feel sick.

He watched Padmé--sweet, strong, fearsome woman--struggle through the birth of her children. Hers, and  _ his _ . Obi-Wan still struggled to accept the truth of it, even seeing the evidence in front of him. A boy and a girl, to match their parents in all the good ways, Obi-Wan hoped, and none of the bad. The woman’s desperation for her children, for her own life, for her husband’s redemption, made the ordeal devastating to watch.

Particularly when she realized that she wouldn’t survive it, and her last words were those of faith in her killer. He was truly beginning and end to her.  _ What a lot of good that did her, _ Obi-Wan thought bitterly, clutching her newborn to his chest in a way she never would.

_ What a lot of good love did us all. _

 

\--

 

As the ship touched down on the dusty surface of Tattooine, Obi-Wan felt his stomach clench. Despite everything that had happened in the past few days, his body was still capable of reacting negatively to an unpleasant situation. It was almost funny; he would’ve thought that he would be numb by now. His mind was certainly numb, but that was far preferable to the alternative: unbearable anguish. He looked out of the ship’s viewscreen at his destination. Yoda’s vague directions and some greased palms in Mos Eisley had led him to the Lars homestead, a humble moisture farm, far from any neighbors. The white dome of the house seemed to glow in the setting suns, and as Obi-Wan took a moment to admire the scenery, he contemplated his strategy. The Lars family had no forewarning as to his arrival, and as Obi-Wan knew next to nothing about the people, he decided to err on the side of caution and leave his precious cargo on board.

A quick glance at the copilot’s seat confirmed that the babe was still sleeping soundly, despite the turbulent landing. He reached out and placed a gentle hand on the newborn’s head; so warm, so soft--too soft for this harsh desert clime and the life of manual labor ahead of him. Obi-Wan pondered (not for the first time) the concept of taking the child, fleeing to some Force-forsaken planet, and raising him by himself. The last two days of interstellar travel had proven that he was capable, if not proficient, at caring for a child alone, despite his own misgivings. Would it really be so terrible, being a surrogate father? Certainly not. He also knew that he would be more able to raise the child with stories of his parents than a distant half-sibling could be. He briefly imagined himself, tucking the child in at night with stories to inspire great deeds and strength of character in a growing mind. Luke needn’t know the circumstances surrounding his parents’ deaths (parents, yes, because Obi-Wan would not consider any alternatives). The child would grow to idolize such parents, and mourn their passing just as Obi-Wan now did.

He did not deny the selfishness of his intentions, however; he knew full well that the majority of his desire to keep the baby sprung from his own desperate need to love, and be loved in return. His greatest flaw, truly, no matter what Qui-Gon had once told him. Even after only a handful of days, Obi-Wan could feel the love he held for the child, potent and heady in his mind like some kind of intoxicant. It clouded his judgment and pushed aside rational thought; it made him yearn for something he was never meant to have. To take the boy as his own would be to renounce everything they--he now, only he--had spent so many millennia upholding. Yes, it was better this way; the child would have a relatively safe life (just about as safe as one could manage on a planet like Tattooine), and Obi-Wan would cut his ties with the Skywalker family and be better for it.

Obi-Wan withdrew his hand, causing the infant’s forehead to wrinkle at the lack of warmth. Space was cold, but Tattooine was certainly not. Luke would have his fill of warmth all too soon. Movement drew Obi-Wan’s eye out to the homestead again, where he saw a young man emerge and stand calmly at the entrance, hand resting pointedly on the blaster holstered to his hip. Obi-Wan recognized this as his cue to disembark. With one last longing look at the sleeping infant, he donned his robe and left the artificial cold of the ship into the all-too-real heat of this foreign planet.

He approached the man, now watching him warily, more curious than truly concerned, with his hands held aloft in the common gesture of “I come in peace.” When he was within earshot, Obi-Wan called out.

“Is this the Lars homestead?” He asked, coming to a stop a few meters away, just in case. The young man maintained his air of curiosity. He wasn’t unfriendly, just… confused.

“Depends on who’s asking,” the man answered in a voice that was smooth and young; the man’s skin and posture pegged him in his mid-thirties, but his voice belied his youth. This was the half-brother, then.

“My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he replied, letting his hands drop at last. “I’m afraid I bring terrible news. You must be Owen?” The man nodded, trying to hide the spark of recognition in his eyes at Obi-Wan’s introduction. “May I speak to you and your father inside?”

“My father has been dead for three years, Master Kenobi,” Owen replied, finally releasing his tentative hold on his blaster and crossing his arms over his chest. Obi-Wan found himself pleasantly surprised at the honorific; if nothing else, Anakin had spoken of him with propriety. “And I would prefer to discuss your news out here.”

“My condolences for your loss.” Owen nodded his thanks, just as a young blond woman emerged cautiously from the stairway behind him. Obi-Wan tipped his head to her in greeting.

“You’re Master Kenobi?” The woman asked, coming to stand next to Owen and wrapping her hands steadily around his bicep. Although the young man did not appear to acknowledge her presence, he relaxed minutely at her touch. “Ani told us a lot about you.”

“Unfortunately, I bring news of more loss. Anakin and Padme have been killed.”

“What happened?” The woman seemed genuinely distraught at the revelation; she clutched more tightly to Owen’s arm. As Owen placed a reassuring hand over hers, Obi-Wan realized that they must be partners, if not husband and wife.

“Both died in a military conflict in the Mustafar system. That is all I am at liberty to say.”

“Why come all the way here to bring this news?” Owen asked, showing no signs of grief or even surprise. He seemed to be a suspicious man, unlikely to believe words unless they were accompanied by proof. “You have no duty to inform us.”

“Owen! He was your brother!”

“Hardly.”

“You are correct in assuming I bring more than just news. Anakin and Padme were married shortly after you last saw them, and they left behind a child, and infant named Luke. I have come to bring him to you in the hope that you would raise him as your own.”

“Why us? Why can’t someone else take him?”

“There is no one else,” Obi-Wan said, working diligently to maintain his diplomatic facade, even as his heart crumbled with the words. “The entire Jedi Order has been destroyed. I am all that remains.”

“You take him then,” Owen said, shaking off his partner’s hands. The woman looked up at him with beseeching eyes, but he shook his head resolutely.

“I cannot take him,” Obi-Wan said, hanging his head. “I have no means to support a child. You are our last hope.”

“What will you do, then?” The woman asked, taking a step away from Owen in a move that seemed casual to Obi-Wan but caused the other man to stiffen unhappily.

“I plan to go into hiding. There are forces at work that would prefer I come to an early and painful demise.” He conveniently left out the fact that one of those forces was the father of the child he was foisting upon them. “It would be best… If I disappeared.”

The woman’s eyes softened. She turned to her partner and leveled him with a look that caused him to grunt in frustration. Owen turned and retreated back into the house, and the woman followed with an apologetic, “We’ll be right back.”

Obi-Wan waited, looking around the exterior of the complex. From what he could determine, the Lars family was not thriving on Tattooine, but they were also not suffering. There was plenty of damage to the homestead itself, but nearly all of it had been painstakingly repaired. The perimeter alarms were expensive, high quality devices that must have cost them months of income to purchase and install. At least they had their priorities straight. At least Luke would be safe.

Obi-Wan was startled out of his inspection by a sudden shout.

“No! You don’t _ know  _ that, Beru! You don’t know that it won’t happen for us someday!”

The female voice murmured a fervent reply. The voices lowered again into unintelligible mumbles. Obi-Wan twisted his mustache and waited.

When the couple emerged, it was with arms linked. Clearly Beru had won the discussion, if the look of bittersweet joy on her face was any indication. Owen looked like a kicked puppy. When he met Obi-Wan’s eyes, however, his distress melted into the wary stoicism that had colored their previous conversation.

“We will take the child, on one condition,” Owen announced, a threat boiling in his tone. “Once you leave here today--and you  _ will _ be leaving today, as I do not intend to harbor a fugitive--you are never to return. You are not permitted to visit the child, or interact with him in any way, including any strange Force nonsense. I may not understand the way of the Jedi, but I do know that you’re not telling the whole truth. Whether it’s because you really can’t say, or because you were somehow involved in Anakin’s death, I don’t know, and I don’t care. Your connection to Luke ends now.”

“I understand,” Obi-Wan replied, willing the tightness in his chest to dissipate. “Shall I bring him out now?”

“Please,” Beru said, tears welling in her eyes.

 

\--

 

His new abode was... ramshackle, to say the least. Even after selling his ship for all the equipment necessary to make a new start on this foreign planet, the place needed work. He told himself that his eyes were prickling from the dust in the air. He had always had sensitive eyes, he convinced himself, scrubbing away the troublesome moisture.

It took four days to make the place worth living in. It took four weeks for him to venture back out, squinting at the suns-set, body slimmed from malnutrition and eyes gaunt from nightmares. He never would have left if he hadn't heard someone calling his name. Or at least, he thought someone was calling his name. After a brief search of the surrounding area, he found himself alone. Clearly, the solitude was playing tricks on his mind. He had been alone since he landed on this Force-forsaken rock, and he would continue to be alone, until he died in this desert, with no one to notice his passing but the sand people who would loot his hovel weeks later. The thought made him fall to his knees and retch. He stared at his own vomit in the red-gold sand and vowed to find civilization.

He walked until he found the dim lights of a township. He couldn't recall in which direction he had walked, or for how long, but he had achieved his goal, and that was enough comfort for now. After stumbling through the town's main avenue, he located his destination: a seedy-looking bar, perfect for obtaining some questionable liquor. With his unkempt hair, wild beard, and filthy robes, he fit right in among the bar's prime clientele. He proceeded to drink himself stupid, and only stumbled off his stool when the bar's owner screeched last call. It would be another long walk back to his residence, if he could even find it, but his comfortably fuzzy head would give him hours of entertainment.

 

\--

 

Before he had thought it all through properly, he was tiptoeing down pale stone steps, slipping silently through the halls of a foreign homestead, letting a figurative beacon of light guide him. As he approached the room, he heard muffled whimpers, ramping up to a full-blown howl. He entered to find the baby, thrashing arms and kicking off blankets, red in the face, hot tears streaming from too-bright eyes.

He lifted the boy from his cot and began bouncing him gently, patting him on the back and beseeching him to quiet down before his surrogate parents came to investigate. How often did babies wake in the night? He vaguely recalled hearing that infants rarely slept through the night. Another reason he had convinced himself to leave the boy here; he valued sleep too much.

"What are you doing here?" Beru asked, appearing suddenly in the doorway; her voice suspicious but her face strangely understanding. Obi-Wan felt his pulse hammering in his cottony head.

"I was passing by and I thought... I thought I would... I'm sorry."

Beru stepped lightly into the room, pulling the door shut behind her. She stayed at the door, watching him as he gently rocked the infant.

"You shouldn't be here. If Owen knew you were here--"

"I know. I'll go. Just... may I have a moment with him?"

Beru nodded, the look on her face too reminiscent of pity for Obi-Wan to find any comfort in it. He felt his stomach turn, but whether is was from shame or gratitude or alcohol, he couldn't tell. She slid into the hallway again, whispering over her shoulder.

"I'll keep watch."

"Thank you."

Obi-Wan turned his attention to the babe in his arms. He had already grown so much, in such a short time. His eyes were stormy blue, the exact same shade as his father's. Obi-Wan saw the child's mother in the dark swath of eyelashes and the tiny nose, his father in the little dimpled chin. He pushed back the feeling of a void opening inside his chest, and chose instead to focus on speaking with this sleepy spark of a human being.

"I do hope your sister is doing as well as you are." Blue eyes blinked slowly, struggling to keep open. "I'm certain she is just fine in Bail's care. He and his wife have waited so long for a child. She's probably spoiled rotten, if I'm honest. Not you, though. You're destined for a much different life, little one..."

 

\--

 

The next day, Obi-Wan vowed to stop counting the days. After his visit to Luke, he felt his purpose return. Despite what his aunt and uncle might think, that little spark would grow up to be a powerful Force user, and Obi-Wan was determined to protect him, attachments be damned. He needed to stay alert, in case trouble should come knocking on this tiny dustball of a planet. He returned to his meditations and exercises like a dehydrated man drinking water: with great enthusiasm and slight nausea. The familiarity of his routine brought with it memories that he longed to ignore but endured, knowing that the only hope for him was to address his past directly. He refused to succumb to the pain of it, to give up and let the memory of all the good that was done die with him. Someone had to pass the history along to Luke, guide him on the right path. His renewed purpose gave him the determination to find himself again in the process. A self which he had thought long lost...

A self which had hope for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting for me, everybody! I'm sorry it took so long. I hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> This is probably my last Star Wars fic so... Thanks for the wild ride :)


End file.
